


life will go on (after the war)

by Fabelhaft (Blue_Blood_Monarch)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 1917 AU, Alternate Universe - World War I, BAMF Arthur, BAMF Elyan, Character Death, Gen, Hurt Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Major character death - Freeform, Protective Arthur, Protective Elyan, Soft Arthur, War, World War I, also, injured arthur pendragon, lowkey, pre arthur/gwen i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23511346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Blood_Monarch/pseuds/Fabelhaft
Summary: The sun is warm on his face, and around him the sounds of the war fade to something almost peaceful.-The 1917 AU nobody asked for
Relationships: Elyan & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Gwen & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	life will go on (after the war)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a 1917 AU in that it has the same plot, so if you haven't seen the movie this is just one big spoiler. However, you don't have to have seen the movie to read this.
> 
> Not my best work but I was too excited to post this to edit it properly, so I apologise.

**_and i promise that we’ll meet again_ **

The sun is warm on his face; in the bitter cold of the wind, of the rain and the mud that clings to his skin and chills him down to his bones, it’s nice. He can almost pretend he’s back home, still a boy, not the man this war has made him, lay in the grass with his sister, letting the afternoon pass by in a lazy trickle. 

Around them, the sounds of the war fade into something almost peaceful.

But he isn’t; the shouts around him remind him of that, and so does the thudding sound of a boot on skin; somebody’s kicking Elyan, lay at his feet.

“Smith.” Elyan doesn’t move, and there’s another kick. “Smith!”

Elyan startles, tugged from his sleepy state, blinking as he gazes blearily up at the man looming above them. “Sorry, Sarge.”

“Pick a man, bring your kit,” is all the Sergeant says and Elyan pulls himself up with a ‘yes, Sarge’. 

Arthur can sense him looking at him, and he wants to scowl. A few moments. A few moments of peace, that’s all he wants. He’s so _tired_. Tired of the killing, tired of the war, tired of being tired. 

He wants to go back home and feel the sun on his face without it being in the middle of a battleground, without having to follow orders, without being seconds away from death all the damn time. 

Elyan’s stood in front of him now, and there’s no way he can avoid getting up now because he’s offering him his hand with a small smile. Arthur can’t help the fondness that wells up in him for the younger man. 

Arthur, it would seem, is Elyan’s man. 

(It’s not surprising; they were brothers in all but blood. They’d fought together, almost died together, and here they were seeking peace together.)

Elyan tugs him to his feet with a grunt, Arthur shifting his pack on his back as he watches the Sergeant’s disappearing form; a ‘don’t dawdle’ his leaving remark, and Elyan, like the good soldier he is, with his no sirs, and yes sirs, only mutters a “No, Sarge,” and that’s that, they’re walking after him, still half asleep and yearning for those few moments of contentment they’d managed to snatch in the field, too green and full of flowers for the rancour of the blood stained battleground; too innocent to exist in the middle of a war. 

Arthur, pulling his helmet on his head, follows Elyan, side by side as he adjusts his gun over his shoulder. 

There’s something in his gut, something almost as rancid and dark as this war, something that bodes of death and grief. 

Something that tells him this isn’t going to end well.

“Did they feed us?” 

He looks to Elyan, biting back a grin. Elyan and his stomach. “No, just mail.” He reaches into his pocket over his breast, pulling out the letter he’d secured there and passes it to his friend. 

Elyan sniffs as he pulls it open, almost ripping it in half. He huffs to himself, a laugh snatched from his lips as he reads it as they walk. “Myrtle’s having puppies,” he informs Arthur with pride. Arthur shakes his head, amused. “You get anything?”

“No.” 

No. No letters from his father, and none from his sister. God knew how they were faring in this mess of a war; had the destruction reached them London? Were they still alive, did they wonder how he was faring, on the front lines shooting Germans for pittance. 

Oh, they’d given him a medal. A cheap piece of tin with a ribbon on it, proudly declaring his heroism and valour. 

He didn’t have the words to describe the way he despised it, the way it cheapened everything he’d done, everything he’d sacrificed; everything every soldier had sacrificed. 

He couldn’t save his friends, but he could get a fucking medal. 

Elyan, oblivious to his melancholy thoughts- but, what man _wasn’t_ prone to melancholy in situations such as this?- continues to speak with his usual cheer. “I’m bloody starving,” he was saying. “Aren’t you? I thought we might get some decent grub out here.” He grins, smiling lopsidedly, eyes twinkling with secretive mischief. “It’s the only reason I decided against the priesthood.”

Arthur laughs, despite himself, and Elyan’s smile turns proud.

Elyan smiles back, watching with faux disinterest as Arthur pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, unwrapping it to reveal a slice of bread. Stale, but edible. His eyes, though, are too sharp, too hungry, and they betray him. 

“It’s just ham and bread, mate.” Arthur tears a chunk off, popping it into his mouth and chewing. After some of the food they’d been forced to eat- only called food because they’d choked it down- it tasted better than any greased goose he remembered having for Christmas. He tears another chunk off, and hands it to Elyan. “Here.”

Elyan wolfs it down with barely even a grimace. “Tastes like old shoe.”

Arthur snorts. “Cheer up. You’ll be having your missus’ cooking again in no time.”

“Don’t have a missus.”

“Well, then you’ll get yourself a missus, too, won’t you?” The women would see his uniform and flock around him until he got sick of them. 

Elyan laughs. “No.” His smile fades. “My leave got cancelled.”

Arthur frowns. “Why?” They’d both been due for leave together.

Elyan shakes his head. “No idea.”

Arthur shoves back the trepidation, turning slightly to slap a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Easier not to go back, anyway.”

There must have been something in his eyes, because Elyan’s looking at him funny. Arthur turns away again, shifting his pack on his back uncomfortably. He doesn’t like being looked at like that, being _assessed_. 

The trenches are as wet and muddy as ever. When this is all over he’s going to move somewhere where he’ll never have to see mud again, he thinks, pulling Elyan to a halt as a group of men march in front of them across the intersection. 

“Something’s up,” Elyan frowns. The trenches are more active than normal, and there’s a look in some of the mens’ eyes that makes something a lot like dread settle low in his stomach. 

Arthur grunts in agreement, falling behind Elyan to form a single line as the trenches narrow.

“Has to be the push, right?” God, Arthur hopes not. “Ten bob says we’re going up.”

Arthur grins. “No, I’m not taking that bet.”

“Because you know I’m right?”

“Because you don’t _have_ ten bob,” Arthur snorts. “You’re as flat, stinkin’ broke as the rest of us, mate. I saw you bartering away your cigarettes the other night.” 

Elyan doesn’t deny it. 

The Sergeant looks behind him, eyebrow raised, and Elyan jogs a little to catch up to him. “Any news on the big push, Sarge? I thought we were due to be home by Christmas- at this rate we’ll still be here for _Easter_.”

The Sergeant twists his head to shoot Elyan an unimpressed look. “Yes, well,” he says dryly, “So sorry to disrupt your oh-so busy schedule, Smith, but the Brass Hats didn’t fancy it in the snow.”

“Fair enough,” Arthur mutters under his breath. “Not like time is of the essence or anything.” Luckily, the Sergeant doesn’t seem to hear him, even if Elyan shoots him an amused grin. 

“Could’ve done with some turkey, though,” Elyan laments, mournful. “Real juicy turkey, can’t beat it.”

“Well, I’ll make sure to relay your displeasure to command, shall I?’

Elyan opens his mouth, no doubt to put his foot in it even more, and Arthur, driven by both experience and panic, gives him a solid shove, speaking instead. “What’s this about, then, Sergeant?” A lifetime of dealing with his father’s business associates had taught him how to handle his superiors; any man, be he Sergeant or General, wanted to _think_ you respected him, that you listened to him.

Arthur had a lifetime’s experience of pretending to do both. Elyan, however, rankled under authority, and hadn’t learned how quite to hide it.

“They’re up to something.”

Germans. 

A shiver crawled up Arthur’s spine, cooling his blood. “Any idea what?”

“No. But it’s bound to ruin our weekend.”

Arthur would have laughed if it didn’t mean that the feeling in his gut- his bad feeling- wasn’t being proven true. 

They finally reach the makeshift command office, and are pulled to a stop when the Sergeant pauses, turning to face them. “Now, listen. Kilgharrah is inside, so you’d better tidy yourselves up.”

Elyan shoots a glance at Arthur, nervous. _Kilgharrah?_ He mouths, eyebrows furrowing in concern and confusion; concern and confusion that Arthur mirrors. 

His bad feeling is getting worse. 

“Cheer up, boys, you never know; might be mentions in dispatches for this one.” Arthur’s fixing his collar when the Sergeant turns away slightly. “If you don’t bugger it up.”

Elyan’s still fiddling with his uniform, fussing with his pockets and smoothing out his lapels, and Arthur grabs his collar, straightening it out for him and running his hands over his front, smoothing it out. “Fishwife,” Elyan grins, earning a fond, exasperated eye roll from Arthur. 

The Sergeant raises an eyebrow before stepping into the makeshift office. Elyan peers after him, stepping closer to Arthur. “Must be big if it’s brought the General down ‘ere,” he mutters lowly. 

Arthur nods, shifting his gun slung over his shoulder again, letting Elyan step inside before him, ducking his head as he steps through the frame of the ‘door’, narrowing his eyes against the sudden darkness. 

There are men- a surprising amount of them- gathered around a low table, and they look up as the Sergeant announces them. “Lance Corporals Smith and Pendragon, sir.”

Kilgharrah’s eyes are sharp, even in the dimness. “Which one of you is Smith?”

Elyan glances to Arthur uncertainly, clearing his throat and shifting on his feet before he steps forward. “Sir.” 

“You have a sister, a nurse with the second Devons?”

Elyan’s eyes widen, and Arthur’s breath catches in his throat, heart racing. Oh, God, no. His hands clench, ready to steady Elyan should Kilgharrah deliver the bad news they both fear he will. 

“Yes,” Elyan chokes, only slightly shaky. “Sir. Gwen Smith, is she…?”

“Alive,” Kilgharrah interrupts. “As far as I know.” It is, Arthur thinks, not as comforting as Kilgharrah probably thinks it is. Elyan breathes a shaky breath of relief, nodding. “And, with your help, I’d like to keep it that way.”

Elyan’s throat bobs.

“Greene tells me you’re good with maps, is that true?”

“Good enough, sir.”

Kilgharrah’s lips twitch. He glances down, reaching for the map lying on the table and turns it so that it’s facing Elyan and Arthur. “We,” he points to a spot on the map, tapping it with a gnarled finger, “Are here.” His finger traces across the map to a spot some distance away. “The second Devons are advancing here.” He glances up at Elyan, face carefully neutral. “How long will it take you to get there.”

Elyan frowns, considering. “I- I don’t understand, sir.”

Neither does Arthur. “Sir,” he speaks up, “That land is held by the Germans.” Not to point out the obvious, but it is a rather large detail he feels like they’re glossing over. 

“The Germans have gone.” Kilgharrah barely even glances in his direction, and the dismission stings. He adds: “Strategic withdrawal, it would seem, so don’t get your hopes up.” He glances back down at the map. “They seem to have created a new line, here,” he says, pointing to another spot on the map, “Nine miles back.” He straightens, clasping his hands behind his back with a military stiffness. “Colonel Lancelot du Lac is in command of the second. He sent word yesterday morning that he plans to go after the retreating Germans.” 

Arthur swallows. “He thinks he can turn the tide.”

Kilgharrah’s eyes flick to him. “If he can break their lines, yes.” Kilgharrah’s face is grave. “He is wrong. Colonel du Lac is not aware of the new German line.” 

The meaning sinks in, and Arthur thinks he might just be sick. 

Kilgharrah beckons them over to a second map. “Three miles deep, field fortifications, defences, artillery- the like of which we have never seen before.” 

Arthur’s gaze is fixed on the map; all he can see is the doom the future holds. He clenches his jaw, suddenly furious. Furious at du Lac, furious at Kilgharrah, furious at the Germans- furious at the men who ordered this war, who have send hundreds of thousands of men to die and will send hundreds of thousands more. 

“The attack is due tomorrow morning, shortly after dawn. They have no idea what they’re in for, and we can’t warn them; the Germans cut all our telephone lines when they withdrew.” How kind of them, Arthur thinks with no small amount of bitterness. Kilgharrah’s finger is tapping on the map as he speaks, and Arthur can’t tune out from its steady tap. “Your orders are to reach the second,” he continues, pulling a sealed envelope from his pocket, “And deliver this letter to Colonel du Lac at Croisilles Wood, one mile south-east of the town of Ecoust.”

“What is it?” It’s Elyan that speaks, chin held up bravely. 

“A direct order, Lance Corporal. To call off the attack.” He clears his throat. “I don’t think I need to describe to you the extent of the massacre that will unfold if you fail to reach them in time.”

Arthur shakes his head, feeling strangely detached. This- this can’t be real; if feels like a bloody _nightmare_.

Kilgharrah tells them anyway. “We would lose two battalions; sixteen hundred men, and no doubt your sister among them.” Kilgharrah’s gaze is firmly on Elyan. “Do you think you can do it, Lance Corporal? Can you reach them in time?”

Elyan licks his lips. “Yes, sir.”

“Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.” Kilgharrah nods once, approving. “Over to you, Lieutenant,” he waves his hand, turning his attention back to the map and the men around him. 

The Lieutenant, a tall, powerful looking man, clears his throat and beckons them over. “Supplies, gentlemen.” He’s handing Elyan things as he speaks, listing them. “Maps, torches, grenades, and a couple of little treats.” He tries for a smile none of them feel, turning to Arthur. “You will leave immediately, taking this trench west, up on Sauchiehall Street, then north-west on Paradise Alley at the front. Continue along the front line until you find the Yorks.” He bends down, picking up an envelope. Give this note to Major Leon Knight,” he continues, grim, “He’s holding the line at the shortest span of No Man’s Land. You’ll cross there.” 

Arthur swallows as Elyan pockets the note. “It’ll be daylight, though, sir. They’ll see us.”

“No need to be concerned,” Kilgharrah interrupts, dismissive. “There won’t be any resistance; the Germans are gone.” He’s still looking at his bloody maps. 

What the fuck do you know, Arthur wants to scream, you’re not the one dying for even just an inch of No Man’s Land. 

Arthur nods with a confidence he doesn’t feel, slinging his gun back over his shoulder and passes Elyan’s to his friend. 

He pauses, mid step on their way out, glancing back over his shoulder. “It’s just us?”

Kilgharrah’s mouth is a harsh line on his face, and his eyes are suddenly burdened in the dim light of the lamps. “ _Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne, He travels the fastest who travels alone_.” He tilts his head meaningfully. “Wouldn’t you say, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir,” Greene speaks, amused. He’s obviously used to the General’s dramatics.

Arthur closes his eyes, forcing down the bile that wants to rise up, and nods. “Of course, sir,” he grits, forcing his legs to obey him and carry him out. He almost misses the General’s ‘good luck’, but Elyan doesn’t. 

“Thank you, Sir,” he calls as they step into the sunlight; almost blinding with its contrast to the smoky dark of the General’s hold. 

“Elyan,” Arthur steps after his friend urgently, “Elyan, wait.” Elyan glances at him, not pausing as he shoves his supplies in his many pockets. “Elyan, let’s talk about this for a minute, come up with a plan-”

“No, Arthur,” Elyan shakes his head, stubborn. “No. I’m not waiting.”

He sets off, and Arthur has to rush after him, calling his name. His pack bobs as he runs, and it’s too heavy and cumbersome; his usual athleticism absent under its burden. “Elyan-”

“Arthur there is _nothing_ to talk about; my _sister_ is with them.”

“Elyan, crossing No Man’s Land now is suicide,” Arthur shouts after him, “You know that. We should wait until it’s dark- we still have time!”

“No. No, they want us to leave now, and for good reason,” Elyan counteracts, adamant. “We’re wading balls deep into enemy territory, Arthur, who knows what bloody mess we’ll encounter.” There’s the firm, stubborn set to his jaw that Arthur has grown to dread. “No. I’m leaving now.” He spins, pointing a finger at his friend. “And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

Arthur curses, running after him. “Listen, I’m not saying this for the sake of it,” he tries, “The last time I was told the Germans were gone I nearly died, and my friends _did_ die. If we just wait-”

“Arthur.” Elyan’s face is pleading, panicked, and Arthur knows, suddenly, that he’s not going to win this argument. Elyan is far too stubborn for that, and Arthur can only imagine how he feels. If it were _Morgana_ there, in amongst that chaos- well. He’d already be in No Man’s Land, Germans or no. 

“All I’m saying is we need to be careful,” he says gently. 

Elyan ignores him as he pushes past the men, shouldering through them, leaving Arthur to mutter apologies as he follows in his wake. “Listen- slow _down_!”

Elyan’s panting slightly as he jogs, a panicked look in his eye, and Arthur growls another curse. 

“Excuse me,” he’s calling, shoving through a clogged section of the trench, “Excuse me!” He’s met with grumbles, but he carries on pushing. 

“Alright,” Arthur tries as they continue to shoulder their way through the trench, “Say they _have_ gone.” He pauses for a second, hurrying to catch up, “It’s nine miles away, which’ll take us, what? Six hours? Eight at the _most_ .” Elyan ignores him, and Arthur makes a frustrated sound. “Elyan, we have _time_ , don’t rush into this, _please_.”

“No, I’m not taking that risk.” Elyan shakes his head. “We could get held up anywhere between here and there, and then we could be late and they’ll all be dead.” He glances up at Arthur. “Sixteen hundred men, Arthur. Sixteen hundred men and my sister, I am _not_ letting them die because we were scared and decided to wait.”

That stings; it’s not cowardice, it’s _not_. “And what if we’re killed? Then they definitely die.” Silence. “We’ve got to be smart about this, Elyan,” he pushes. “Ells..”

Elyan’s scowling, and Arthur knows that he knows Arthur’s bringing up good points. He always does, that’s how their arguments go. They know they’re both right, but they’re always too stubborn to back down. 

So here they are, yet again at another stalemate.

Arthur bites back another curse as Elyan ignores him; they’ve reached the front line, and Elyan’s going to fucking cross No Man’s Land and get them both killed. 

Elyan grab’s a passing man’s arm, forcing him to halt. “Where are the Yorks?”

The man scowls at him, spitting at his feet. “How the bloody hell should I know?” He’s tall, with a ruddy face and thick mustache, and Arthur takes an instant dislike to him. 

“Who does, then?” He asks impatiently, grabbing Elyan’s hand and tugging it from the man’s forearm. 

He shrugs. “Try over there,” he mutters, jerking his head to the right before walking off. 

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose as Elyan sets off, stepping past the men sat on the ground, huddled into small dugouts, all of them looking fifty shades of miserable. Poor sods, Arthur thinks. But at least _they_ won’t be shot by the Germans in No Man’s Land and left to the rats. He doesn’t envy them, though. Their dugouts are tiny, cramped, and the rats are scuttling at their feet, running over their boots. 

He can’t take his eyes off them as they pass through; there’s a horrible dead look in their eyes. 

And that’s the able bodied ones, the ones that _haven’t_ been shot, haven’t been blown apart. 

Then, Arthur spots them. The wounded; some with cuts and lacerations, but there’s one man, dead, thats brought past them on a stretcher, if the eerie stillness is anything to go by, that sends a bolt of fear shooting down his spine. There’s two rusty red spots where his eyes should be, blood bleeding through the bandage wrapped around his face. For God’s sake, Elyan’s going to get them both _killed_. 

“It's bloody quiet,” Elyan mutters, gaze flitting about. “That’s good, yeah?”

Arthur grunts, rolling his shoulder. It aches in the cold, sometimes, especially under the weight of his gun and pack. “Dunno, mate.”

“Come on, you’re the one that got sneak attacked by the bloody Germans.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Arthur mutters. 

“Ah, come on, don’t be like that. _You_ did alright, got a medal outta it and everything.”

Arthur glowers. “Drop it.”

“Hey,” Elyan ignores him as always, brow creasing. “What happened to that? You never wear it, how come?”

“Don’t have it.” Arthur’s stomping now, prickly as a cactus as he fights the urge to cross his arms defensively in the face of his friend’s questions. The memories he’d rather forget. 

“What?” Elyan’s obviously shocked, and Arthur doesn’t need to turn to know that his mouth’s dropped open slightly, eyes wide. 

“You heard me.” He rolls his shoulder again. 

“How the _hell_ did you lose it?”

Arthur doesn’t answer, and soon they’ve reached the crossing. “Stay low,” is all he says, bending over as they step over the charred, rocky ground. 

There’s a body, and Arthur tries not to look.

“Oi,’ Elyan says to one of the diggers, “You know where the Yorks are?”

The man scowls. “Reach the next bend and you’ll be stood on top of half of ‘em. Shot to hell two nights ago, weren’t they.” 

Jesus, no wonder why they all looked like that.

Arthur’s mouth settles into a thin like as he and Elyan share a glance before they press on, moving forward.

They round the corner, and- “Fucking hell,” Arthur mutters, “He wasn’t kidding.”

There are corpses everywhere, in varying stages of decomposition, and the air is thick with the scent of rot. It clogs in the back of Arthur’s throat, thick and sickly. 

There’s men sitting amongst them, and Elyan makes his way over to them. “Yorks?” He asks urgently, and when one nods, his shoulders slump in relief. “Where’s Major Knight?” The man’s face is streaked with dirt, and he looks like he’s succumbed to the exhaustion Arthur can feel settling in his bones, an exhaustion bourne of horror and the constant possibility of impending death. 

“Died, didn’t he? When we were all-”

“Shot to pieces two nights ago,” Arthur finishes, laughing mirthlessly. “Great.”

Elyan’s face crumples, and he curses. “Who’s in command, now, then?”

“Lieutenant Percival Chance.” The name sounds familiar.

“And where is he?” Arthur presses. 

The man shrugs. “Check the next dug-out.”

Arthur thanks him before he clamps a hand on Elyan’s shoulder, dragging him away. “Come on.” After a few steps he releases his grip on his friend. Seemingly at the same time, they spy the dug out. “Here-”

There’s a man lay on his back, broad arm thrown over his eyes, and Elyan’s approaching before Arthur has a chance to. “Sir? Lieutenant Chance?”

The man doesn’t stir- poor bastard’s trying to sleep, but, unfortunately, the war waits for no man. “Sir?” Elyan tries again, and this time there’s a grumble as the man stirs. 

When Elyan calls again, he moves his arm to glare at them, asking shortly: “Yes? What do you want?”

“We-” Elyan fiddles with his pockets, fishing out the letter and offering it for the man to take. “We have a message from General Kilgharrah.”

Lieutenant Chance sits up slowly, blinking blearily. His eyes are glazed slightly, and he looks like shit, but his interest is obviously piqued. “ _What_ did you just say?”

“We have a message from-”

“No, I heard you,” he mutters. “Are you our relief?”

“No, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Lieutenant Chance scowls. “Then when the bloody hell are they due?” He mutters to himself, taking the letter.

“I don’t know sir, but we’ve got orders to cross here.”

Chance looks up at him, startled. “You’re not serious.” He lifts a hand, pointing. “That’s the fucking German front line right there.” 

Arthur nods. “We know, sir.”

Lieutenant Chance shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he reads the letter. “Jesus wept, they’re serious.” He stares at the letter for the moment, before glancing at them both, looking them up and down. He stands, towering over them and shrugs. “Fucking brass. Well, it’s your lives, not mine so I won’t stop you.” He jerks his head, an order for them to follow him as he steps out of the dug-out. “I should tell you, I lost an officer and three men two nights ago. Gunned to shreds.”

Arthur swallows, throwing Elyan an _I-told-you-so_ look that Elyan pointedly ignores. 

“Sir,” Elyan says, “The General is convinced that the enemy has retreated, and he needs us to cross here.” 

The Lieutenant glances sideways at Elyan. “They’re not the ones who fought and died on every fucking inch of this place.” He scrunches the letter up in his hand. “They had us, you know.” He’s angry. “Had us right where they fucking wanted us, and now they’ve just gone?” He shakes his head. “No. It’s a fucking trap.”

Elyan’s face hardens, and his jaw is clenched; it’s not what he wants to hear. 

Lieutenant Chance eyes him. It’s obvious that Elyan won’t be dissuaded, and when he looks to Arthur, he merely looks at him helplessly. Chance shakes his head to himself, digging a cigarette from his pocket and lights it. “Well, be it on your heads and all that. Who knows, might even get a medal at the end of it.”

The thought tastes bitter to Arthur. 

The Lieutenant comes to a halt suddenly. “It’s not pretty out there, but there’s a rough path through the wire you can follow.” He pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and curls his hand around it as he lights it, speaking around it. “Oi, Rushworth, let them have a look.” Elyan scrambles up the banked wall to where Rushworth has moved, peering through the periscope to No Man’s Land. “Straight ahead, to the left. Past the dead horses. See it?”

Elyan calls an affirmative, letting Arthur look. 

“There’s a gap directly behind them. Can’t miss it, just follow the stench.” He flicks the end of his cigarett, ash falling from it like salt, and huddles a bit in his jacket. “When you get to the second wire, look out for the bowing chap.” Here, he makes a mocking bow; it’s somewhat comical with his large frame, but his face is grave, and Arthur is seized by the very likely possibility that one or both of them won’t make it to the other side of this mission. He glances to Elyan, but he’s too busy squinting at the barren stretch of No Man’s Land. Too determined and stubborn to even consider that outcome. “There’s a small break, just beside him,” Chance is saying, “The German line is,” he scrunches his face in thought, “a hundred and fifty odd yards after that.” He exhales an especially thick line of smoke with a great deal of satisfaction. 

His gaze meets Arthurs, solemn and steady. “This way.” He carries on walking, and Elyan scrambles down to follow him. 

Arthur hurries to his side. “What about cover? Is there anywhere-” 

“No,” Chance shakes his head. “No. Sap trench was blown to hell weeks ago, mate. Filled with bodies. Your best bet,” he adds, nodding towards a small ladder climbing up the wall of the trench. “Is to cross here.” He folds his arms, staring them down. “And pray the General isn’t wrong.”

Arthur swallows, the ladder oddly intimidating as he attaches his bayonet to the end of his gun. “Yes, sir.”

Elyan’s staring at it, almost hungry. “We’ll be fine,” he says, attaching his own bayonet. 

“Yes, well.” Lieutenant Chance is doubtful and unimpressed. “If you _do_ get shot we won’t come after you, not until dark,” he warns. “So you’re best off not letting that happen.”

Arthur smiles weakly. “Noted.”

“And if you do make it- by God’s will or just plain stubbornness- send up a flare.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Don’t have one.”

His mouth is painfully dry all of a sudden; he’d kill for some water. He can feel his heart racing in his chest, can hear the rushing of his blood in his ears, and his pulse is rabbiting in his wrist as he finishes sliding the ammunition into his gun. 

“Jesus- fucking hell.” Lieutenant Chance turns to a nearby soldier, scowling. “Go get them one, then, will you? Jesus wept, you lot are useless.” 

Hurried, a frazzled looking man hands one over. “Yessir, sorry sir.”

Elyan takes it from Chance, securing it on one of his straps, glancing to Arthur. 

Arthur, whose face, he knows, is grim. 

Elyan’s optimism is endearing, it really is, but he’s blinded by his desperation and hope. Arthur is far more jaded. His last skirmish with the Germans left him scarred and wary of them. 

“Well, good luck and all that,” Chance offers, looking them both up and down with a small, incredulous shake of his head that speaks of his disbelief. “Die well.”

Arthur swallows, throat bobbing with the motion. He turns to Elyan, offers his hand, and summons a smile when he clasps his forearm. “Ready?”

Elyan’s eyes meet his, nervous but determined. “Yes.”

Arthur inhales with a nod. “Alright.” 

With one last glance to the men watching them, equal parts awed and disbelieving, they turn in sync and climb up the first rung of the widel ladder. Elyan’s about to crawl over when Arthur clamps a hand on his shoulder. It’s best, if any of them are going to get their heads blown off as they come up, that it be him. 

“Age before beauty,” he grins, with a lightness he doesn’t feel.

He hesitates, his breathing jagged and loud, before he takes the plunge, crawling over the crest of dirt, low on his belly, Elyan close behind. 

It’s eerie; the land is barren and the stench of death and rot makes him want to gag. Stakes protrude from the scorched, bloodied land like impalements; he can make out the corpses entangled in the barbed wires that span between them, a gross parody of a fly trapped in a spiderweb. 

The horses are placed exactly as Lieutenant Chance had said.

He straightens into a crouch, keeping as low as he can as they make their way through the mud, his gun held steady in his hands and ready to fire. 

Chance was probably understating it when he said their wire was a mess; the path through it is barely wide enough to squeeze through, and Arthur can feel the barbs slice through his uniform as he moves. 

It stings, but he ignores it as he drops to his knees and ducks his head, shuffling along like that until- finally- there’s a break and he can stand stooped again.

Elyan’s ragged breath is loud in his ears; he doesn’t blame him, his own heart is racing in his chest, and his senses feels like they’ve been dialled up and intensified by tenfold. Adrenaline is a powerful beast, he thinks. 

Absently, he recognises that he’ll be in for a nasty crash when this is all over. 

They reach the second stretch of wire, and they share a look at the man caught suspended there. The path through is right next to him, and from this close Arthur can see where the birds have been at him.

He grabs the stake, pulling it towards him to widen the gap and ushers Elyan through. They’re going too slow. 

Arthur finds himself holding his breath until they reach the sap trench; poor cover was better than no cover, because right now they were completely in the open and Arthur could feel himself vibrating with the need to duck out of sight. He felt raw and exposed, poised on a knife’s edge as he waited for the inevitable gunfire. 

He jumps down, breathing heavily as he crowds against the wall of the trench, glancing to Elyan. “Alright?” He keeps his voice low.

Elyan nods. “Not far, now.”

The Lieutenant wasn’t exaggerating when he’d said the sap trench is full of bodies; Arthur can’t _not_ see them, can’t look away because everywhere he looks there’s a dead man with a look of hopelessness frozen on his face.

Rotting in the mud, left to the rats and birds. 

What a miserable fucking fate.

When he’d first joined the war, when he was still a naive, brave boy he’d been sick at the sight of his first dead body. It had been a man in his platoon, and he’d been shot in the leg. It had taken three days for him to die; the wound festering in the moist, dirty conditions of the trenches, sapping his strength until he could barely move. 

He could still remember the sight of the festered wound, the pus, the swollen skin around it. 

He’d hardened to it since, then. 

Though, he supposes, somewhat wryly as he clutched his rifle, it’s hard not to when you see men getting their brains blown out on the daily.

His chest heaves as he takes a deep, steadying breath. Elyan lands next to him, but he gets spooked by the dried, unseeing eyes staring back at him, and his back hitting Arthur’s side as he scrambles away from them with a shudder. “Fuck!” 

He’s warm against Arthur, even through the uniform.

“Bloody hell, Elyan,” he grumbles, “Watch it.”

Elyan waves his hand in apology, peering up. The only sounds are the wind, howling through the wire, and their breathing, and it's _eerie_. 

Arthur can’t shake the skin crawling feeling that he’s being watched. 

“Okay; ready?”

Elyan isn’t, but he nods anyway, hands flexing where they grip his gun. 

Arthur nods once, pressing a finger to his lips; “On me.” He pulls himself up, slowly, fighting to urge to screw his eyes up at the expectation of being shot at; his ear rings with the phantom shot. 

Creeping, slowly- oh so painfully slow- they creep forward, booted feet sinking into the mud with an audible squelch. They’re only barely out of the trench when they hear it. 

The low, thrumming sound of an engine is deafening in its suddenness as three planes fly overhead; they freeze, rendered motionless where they stand by sheer panic before Arthur gathers his wits and pushes Elyan down and into the nearest shell hole, shaking. 

_Fuck_.

They hunch over, making them as small as they can and hide their faces as the planes fly, hearts in their mouths. 

When they’ve passed, Arthur turns his head to follow them, mouth dry. “They’re ours.”

Elyan doesn’t speak, but there’s an uneasy look in his eyes that mirrors the one in Arthur’s gut. “We’ve got to keep moving,” is all he says, eventually. “We’re half way.”

Arthur nods, and, carefully, they move out of the shell hole and back onto the flat, barren expanse of No Man’s Land. 

  
  
  
  
  


-

  
  
  
  


When they finally reach a break in the German wire, it isn’t ideal, to say the least; to get to it, they have to crawl down, and then back up, a large, steep crater filled with muddy, filthy water that even Elyan doesn’t want to touch him. 

Arthur puffs his cheeks with reluctance before carefully sliding down; the water is thicker than he expected. It’s disgustingly mucus-like and he resists the urge to shudder. It’s cold, and he can feel it permeating through his mud-soaked boots.

He’ll never feel clean again, after this war. 

Elyan’s slide down is slower, more cautious, and he steps gingerly toward Arthur, nose wrinkled in distaste.

They have to wade through it, and then climb up to the other side, and Arthur pulls himself up easily, bending down to help pull Elyan up with a grunt. “How the hell is a man so small so heavy?”

“I’m wet,” Elyan scowls, “And muddy. Fuck off.” He waves two fingers at Arthur, making him laugh.

Arthur’s still smirking to himself as he steps through the German wire, right to the German front line. 

Elyan whistles softly. “Well, there she is. The front line.”

Arthur humms, surveying the area. It’s still eerily silent and deserted, and the uneasy feeling in his stomach grows. “Don’t get cocky, now,” he warns Elyan, raising his rifle to shoulder height, at the ready. 

Elyan mirrors him, licking his lips nervously with a nod. He takes the lead, each step cautiously as they move towards the enemy trench, Arthur at his back; Elyan can feel his breath at the back of his neck, can sense Arthur as he moves, and it’s comforting. Arthur has his back now, just as he always has. 

Arthur moves to be beside him as they near the trench, and they share a glance before quickly moving to lean over it, guns pointing down, their hearts racing, anticipating yells and gunfire, searing hot pain, bullets slicing through the air, but-

“Fuck me,” Elyan breathes, “They really have gone.”

It’s deserted; as empty as No Man’s Land, only mud, rats and cigarettes in sight. 

Arthur’s knees go weak with relief as they climb down, turning on the spot. It’s an odd feeling, being in the enemy’s trench, like walking into the women’s lavatory. There’s a thrill to the foreignity. “It’s fucking massive,” he says, miffed. It’s much larger than their British trench, and much better crafted; deeper and well reinforces. No wonder they’re so bloody hard to defeat. 

It’s like a fucking ghost town. 

They make their way through the trench, frowning at a destroyed section. It’s smashed in at one place, all rubble and singed earth. 

Blocked. 

“Look,” Elyan mutters, gesturing with his rifle to a brazier full of whitened, crumbling coal; he nudges it with his foot, tipping it over, sending the coal dust spilling; red embers fly, and Arthur’s eyes widen fractionally in understanding. 

“They’re not long gone.”

Elyan shakes his head, mouth set in a grim line, hands shifting on his rifle. 

They head east, down the trench, Elyan watching the top of the trench for any lingering enemies and Arthur looking ahead, gun at the ready, bayonet glinting menacingly in the afternoon light, until they reach the mouth of the comms trench. It is, to their annoyance, another dead end. 

Arthur bites back a curse, glancing to the second line trench; it seems, at his first observation, empty. Pursing his lips, they head to it, the silence deafening. 

Any small sounds set them flinching, rifles jerking in its direction; the scuttle of rats, the whistle of the wind, they’re on edge. 

Their footsteps set Arthur’s teeth on edge; they click and echo on the duckboards. Too loud.

Distantly, he remembers a time in his boyhood when he used to run through the family house, over the heavy oak floorboards and enjoy the way his shoes would click and echo, how he would always win when he played hide and seek with his sister because he could always, without fail, hear her movements. 

The trench takes a sharp turn, and Arthur is brought up short, violently yanked from his memory by Elyan’s sudden halt. 

They creep forward, inch by inch, hearts in their mouths and breath held in suspense as they enge their way around; once again they’re lucky. No enemies in sight, but it doesn’t do much to relax them because the section of the trench before them is destroyed. 

It looks like they’d dropped a bomb on it before they left; it’s blackened and broken, huge splinters of timber standing tall out of the dirt, sharp and towering. 

“Fuck,” Arthur spits, “ _Fuck_.” It’s fucking blocked. 

“Hey,” Elyan elbows him, nodding to a nearby dugout; the mouth of it is gaping and menacing as Elyan bends, peering into the darkness. 

Arthur looks over his friend’s shoulder. He can just make out the stairs at its floor; they look steep, and they look like they go down deep. “You’re kidding,” he says flatly. 

“No, it looks like a way through.” It also looks like a perfect opportunity to lay booby traps, but Arthur decides to keep that to himself. Elyan isn’t stupid, he’d have recognised it too, even if he doesn’t wan’t to say it. Elyan steps forward, feet careful as he descends, and Arthur pulls a face before following him with great reluctance. 

Elyan has turned on the torch on his rifle, and Arthur moves his hand to do the same. Elyan’s torch is swinging in the blackness, like a search beacon, and Arthur can make out just how _large_ this dug out is. 

“Jesus,” he whistles, impressed despite himself. “Bastards.”

Elyan huffs, torch on the far wall where they can see the tree trunk acting as a support to the whole dug out. “Bastards,” he agrees. “They’re fucking winning _and_ they have fucking barracks? Bastards.”

Arthur’s lips twitch as he moves around, the timber under his feet groaning. “They’ve even got beds,” he shakes his head. “Fuck me.”

Elyan laughs as he walks up to one of the bunks, fingers brushing the metal frames in equal parts envy and awe. “I don’t want to give them any credit, but-”

“They know how to build,” Arthur finished. “Yeah.” He swallows, suddenly struck by the _humanity_ he can see; his eyes spot a photograph stuck to one of the bedframes, a photograph of a German and his family, and it makes something uncomfortable lodge in his throat. It takes him a long moment before he can look away.

They’re all fighting for their country, and it’s so easy to forget there’s a human on the other side of it. 

“Fuck this,” he says, angry. “Fuck this, come on.” He moves away, heading towards the Officer’s Quarters, jaw clenched and lips scowling. There’s more beds- iron frames, of course, sturdy and uncomfortable- an arm chair and desk, and even, and this, Arthur thinks, is the kicker- a cooking area. There’s a box of supplies lying on its side, contents spilling out, and Arthur’s gaze snares on it, blinking. 

His gaze drifts back to the beds, and he can see a tunnel next to one of them. It’s a yawning, black hole in the wall; cold and intimidating. As he nears, the air feels thicker, somehow, heavy. “Elyan,” he speaks, “Found our way out.”

“Yeah,” comes the distracted reply, “Oi, how ‘bout this, eh?” 

Arthur turns to see Elyan sitting on one of the beds, bouncing gently on the mattress. Arthur rolls his eyes; he’s such a child. “Get up before you cut yourself on one of the strings and give yourself tetnus,” he scolds, peering into the tunnel. 

“Fine,” Elyan grumbles, but instead of walking to Arthur, he ambles over to the food supplies, touching them with his fingers consideringly. “Hey, they’ve got some good stuff here,” he calls, picking up one of the tins. “Fleischkonserve,” he reads. “No idea what the fuck that is but I could eat dog meat I’m that hungry.”

Arthur smiles. “Then you wouldn’t mind eating that.”

Elyan frowns. “Wait- it’s actually dog meat?”

Arthur nods. “Boche dog meat,” he confirms. His lips twitch.

Elyan pulls a face, weighing it in his hand; although, it would seem that he’s weighing up how hungry he actually is rather than how heavy the actual tin is. “Come here, help me look in the boxes, see what else they have.”

Feeling no better than a vulture, Arthur steps forward, opening his mouth when he freezes suddenly, blood running cold. 

Elyan’s face shifts, his eyes widening. His fingers clutch the tin tightly. “What?” His voice is barely more than a whisper. 

“Trip wire,” Arthur breathes, eyes on the thin piece of wire he’d almost broken. “Shit.” Elyan’s throat bobs as he swallows, eyes sweeping the floor. “Don’t move!” Arthur hisses. 

“I'm fucking not,” Elyan hisses back. “Where is it?”

“Goes from here to the door.” Arthur raises a hand and motions; Elyan’s eyes pick it out, and a shiver claws its way up his spine. 

“Fucking hell,” Elyan curses, his breathing heavy. Arthur’s about to say something else- what, Elyan doesn’t know- when something drops from the ceiling and moves towards him. 

It’s a fucking rat- a fat, _massive_ bloody rat and it’s heading right for the fucking wire. 

“Shit-” Elyan moves to step forward to stop it but it’s too late- it’s too quick, and his movement has startled it into moving even swifter, and before either of them can shout the wire’s pulled taunt and, almost in slow motion, it snaps and there’s an exploding of bright light as the explosives are triggered.

It’s impossibly loud, the explosion; deafening in the enclosed space, and Elyan’s ears are ringing- painful, so painful- his head throbbing as a section of the roof drops, rubble and chalky dust blasting outwards. He’s thrown back with the impact, his back and head hitting the wall with a painful _thud_. 

He’s winded and choking on the dust, coughing as he pulls himself up, bending over as he coughs the dust out of his lungs until he can breathe again, panting. His rifle, and his torch, have fallen on the floor, and he can see the dust swirling in it’s beam of light. 

He wipes at his face, hand coming away streaked with blood, looking around. Disorientation makes his head fuzzy and slow, and it takes him a second to put his finger on what feels so _wrong._

It’s silent.

And there’s no Arthur.

He’s starting to panic, blood running cold, as he pushes off the wall, stumbling slightly, grabbing for his gun and shining the torch where Arthur had been stood; he’s not there- _he’s not there._

There’s a pile of rubble in his place. 

And, from it, he can just make out a muffled scream. It’s Arthur- Arthur’s screaming because he’s buried under the rubble, and Elyan wants to be sick.

“Fuck,” he curses, voice shaking as he staggers over, listening again. His ears have stopped ringing, and Arthur’s screams are louder. 

Shit- _shit._ His hands fly to the rubble, uncaring at the way they hurt his fingers as he digs frantically, panic tasting like bile in his throat. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck!”_ He tugs each piece of rubble away, pausing to listen; Arthur’s screams are getting weaker, and it renews Elyan’s panicked desperation. “Arthur!”

His hands fly as he starts to sob, shouting Arthur’s name as the structure around them starts to groan menacingly. He’s running out of time. 

He brushes away the loose earth, finally, _finally_ , seeing skin, and he wants to sob from pure relief. It’s lips- full, red, sensual lips. _Arthur_ ’s lips; it’s his mouth, wide open and filled with the pale grey dust. 

“Arthur! Art!”

His fingers scrabble at Arthur’s face, tearing away the chalky dust from his mouth, uncovering his nose, and then Arthur suddenly heaves, throat moving as he retches, coughing. His hacking coughs are spraying the dirt, and Elyan gets his hands under his spine, tugging him up and over so he can breathe. “Arthur,” he sobs; uncovering more of his face, revealing his eyes, packed with the dirt. His stomach clenches with concern, but he moves to the rest of Arthur’s body, uncovering his arms and chest as best as he can, but Arthur’s thrashing, calling out. “ _Elyan!”_ his voice is hoarse and painful sounding. He’s trying to free himself, but he’s too tightly packed in and he can’t, and it’s only spurring on his panic. “Elly!” 

Elyan shushes him brokenly, begging him to calm down and wake up as he tries to uncover the rest of him, but it’s no use. It’s taking too long, and Arthur’s not calming down. His voice has broken off, but he’s still thrashing, mouth moving in a silent scream. 

“Fuck it.” He grabs Arthur’s flailing arm and _pulls_ ; he pulls with all his might, all his strength, grunting, but it’s working- he wrenches Arthur upwards and out of the dirt and rubble, pulling him to his feet, but his legs aren’t supporting him. Elyan gets his hands under his arms, supporting his limp form as best as he can. “Arthur,” he shouts, “Arthur stand up!” Arthur’s not listening- either he’s too much in shock, or he _can’t_ and Elyan doesn’t know which is worse, but it’s not good either way- so he yells again, putting as much fitness and authority in it as he can. Arthur seems to react to that out of pure instinct, battered into him by the army. 

Elyan can see him properly now, and it’s not good; he’s caked in the dust and dirt, and his chest is heaving as he coughs and retches. He’s shaking. 

The groaning is getting louder, and more of the roof falls around them, sending even more dust and dirt spilling into the small area. “Shit,” Elyan spits. “Arthur- Arthur, the whole thing’s coming down, we need to go _now_!”

Arthur’s too stunned to react, and Elyan curses again, half-dragging Arthur to his feet and towards the tunnel. Arthur stumbles after him blindly and Elyan’s seized by the gripping fear that they might get separated; they might get separated and Arthur might not make it.

He turns his head, grabbing Arthur’s hand and clamping it to his shoulder. “Keep hold of me, you hear? You don’t let go of me.”

Arthur nods, his eyes puffy and mostly closed, and Elyan swallows, soldiering on, Arthur’s hand heavy on his shoulder; he’s coughing, still, right in Elyan’s ear, but Elyan’s just relieved to know that he’s still here at his back as they walk down the sloping tunnel. 

The tunnel, because of fucking course it does, forks; left and right. One has been destroyed, and Elyan doesn’t hesitate- they don’t have time, so he drags Arthur along the only fork they can go. “Arthur come one, we have keep moving.”

“I can’t see- I can’t see, Elyan!” His voice is raw fear, and it makes Elyan want to cry. Arthur- strong, dependable Arthur, fearless Arthur, Elyan’s rock, his steady reassuring rock- reduced to this makes him all the more terrified, but he sucks in a deep breath, face hardening. 

Arthur needs him to be strong, now. Arthur needs him. 

He stops suddenly, Arthur stumbling into him- “Stop!”

Arthur freezes, confused. 

The bucket that Elyan didn’t see- the bucket that he knocked with his foot falls down into the dark, cavernous hole; plunging down into the blackness. 

“Mineshaft,” he breathes, and Arthur’s hand tightens on his shoulder. 

There’s no way around it- the Germans have seen to that, and Elyan closes his eyes against the sudden wave of fury. “Fuck- we’re going to have to jump,:

Arthur shakes his head frantically. “No- no! I can’t see- El, I can’t see!” 

Elyan steps back, leaping over, turning back and holding his hand out. Arthur stands frozen, face frozen in fear. “Arthur, you’re going to have to jump- just jump!”

“I can’t!” Arthur shouts. “I can’t fucking see!”

Elyan curses; Arthur’s eyes are streaming with tears and dust as his eyes try to clean themselves in vain. He’s blinded, rooted to the spot in fear. 

The mineshaft looms between them while the structure behind him falls; everything is collapsing around them and if they don’t get out of there fast they’ll be buried alive in a German fucking dug out. 

“Arthur,” he calls, fighting to keep his voice even. “Art, you have to trust me, okay? You can make it, I promise, you just have to _jump_!”

Arthur’s face crumples, and it _hurts_ Elyan, but then it hardens, schooled into his usual stoicness. His chest heaves in the dim light, a single steadying breath, and then he jumps. 

He leaps forward towards Elyan, top half toppling forward, and when he lands he lands hard; his back foot slips, but Elyan’s hands shoot out to grab him by the straps on his uniform with a relieved grin. “See?”

Arthur clutches him, swallowing. 

"Come on,” Elyan urges, “Don’t you dare let me go. You hear me?” He shakes Arthur slightly, hihs head flopping slightly as he does so.

Arthur only nods, and Elyan turns, trusting Arthur to keep hold of him as he directs them towards the small pinprick of daylight he can see in the distance. They scramble forwards, stumbling out of the hole, and Elyan runs forward, looking around, gun raised, for any enemies. 

They’ve emerged in a large, sunken ditch and it makes him uneasy; they’re easy pickings here. 

He turns back to Arthur, watching him bend over as he catches his breath; he’s covered in the dust, and it makes his pale skin look even paler. 

He grabs his shoulder and pushes him upright, peering at his face. His eyes are red and puffy, painful looking, but other than that and a gash on the side of his face, running from temple, across his cheek, and to his chin, the red of his blood stark against his skin, he looks fine. His hand is battered away by his irritable friend, and he steps back. “Stop,” Arthur manages, “Just…” He doesn’t finish, and Elyan sighs. 

“Bloody bastards,” he groans. 

Arthur’s lips purse but he doesn’t say anything as they press on; Elyan climbs up a small rise, rifle at the ready. Arthur’s close behind him, steps shaky but determined. 

“Could’ve left more traps,” he warns, “Be careful, Arthur.” He makes it up to the crest of a small berm and peers into the distance. He can make out a quarry; it curves away from them. Huge and desolate; it’s towering, and he can see that it bears the marks of this war- holes and entrances are carved, brutal on its surface. 

What is most chilling, however, are the guns and artillery- all German- scattered around them; they are damaged, some of the barrels of the larger guns look like they’ve had a grenade shoved down them, splitting the metal; it curls back on itself in strips, useless. 

At least, he thinks as he looks around, it’s abandoned. 

Arthur makes it to his side before he sinks to the ground, unclipping his water bottle and tipping his head back; he pours what little water he has left over his eyes, trying desperately to wash them out, blinking wildly. He grunts; iit must sting. “There’s so much fucking dust in my eyes,” he manages, spitting water from his mouth. “Bloody bastards.”

Elyan’s face twists guiltily as he hands his water bottle over. “Here- use mine.”

Arthur accepts it, somewhat roughly, and Elyan watches him, concerned. “Fucking rats, eh?” His attempt to lighten the mood falls flat as Arthur wipes at his face, turning to him, eyes red and angry. Sharp. 

“Next time,” he says, more of a snarl than anything else, “Pick someone else.”

Elyan rears back, stung. “What?”

“What the _fuck_ did you choose me for?” Elyan recognises the look in his eyes; he’s scared. And when Arthur’s scared he lashes out. His hands shake, tremble like a fucking leaf as he fishes in his pockets, clutching a small tobacco tin in his hands, checking it with a frantic urgency. 

“I didn’t know what I was picking you for,” Elyan says softly. 

“No,” Arthur agrees, voice hard and acidic. “You never do- that’s your bloody problem, Smith.”

It feels like a slap to the face; they haven’t been Pendragon and Smith to each other since the day they almost died together, since they saw a kindred spirit in each other on the battlefield, since they said _you_ , _you’re my brother in soul if not blood_.

“Go back, then,” Elyan scowls. “Huh? Why the fuck don’t you head back, then? I’m not stopping you, am I? Go all the way back to General Kilgharrah and tell him where to stick; hell, go home for all I care.”

Arthur’s glare hardens. “Don’t.” His jaw shifts as he clenches and unclenches it, and then, after a beat, his shoulders deflate and his grip on the tobacco tin loosens slightly, and he puts it back in his pocket. 

“Look, I’m sorry,” Elyan says, softer. “I swear, I thought it would be something easy- I thought they’d send us up the line, or, I don’t know, for food or something.” His hands run over his head, frustrated. “”I never thought it would be _this_ , not in my wildest fucking dreams, I promise.”

Arthur’s not meeting his gaze, and he swallows, suddenly scared. “So- do you want to go back?”

Arthur’s face softens, eyes flickering to Elyan’s before shifting away. “Just fire the bloody flare,” he says tiredly, “Yeah?” 

Elyan sags momentarily in relief before standing, hands only trembling slightly as he loads and lifts the flare, glancing towards the British lines. His jaw moves, as he mutters something under his breath that Arthur can’t catch; he fires it straight up. 

It illuminates his face, highlighting already striking features, streaking through the sky in a pale declaration of their survival; a massive ‘fuck you’ to Lieutenant Chance, Arthur thinks with a small smile. 

Arthur pulls himself to his feet as Elyan glances at his compass; “Where are we?” He asks, voice still hoarse. 

Elyan glances at him. “We need to head south east. As long as we keep that bearing, we’ll make it.” He sounds confident of that assessment, and Arthur trusts him. 

He turns, looking down at the land, nodding. “Alright, then. We should keep moving.” He glances up at the sky. “We don’t have much daylight left.”

Elyan’s face is grim. “Come on, then.”

  
  
  


-

  
  
  
  


“Jesus,” Arthur mutters under his breath, “They’ve destroyed _everything_ .” The wrecked guns sit on the barren earth, blackened and twisted; Arthur can’t help but feel like it’s a sign- God’s damning finger pointing at them. _For your sins, your fate will be equal._ “Guns, trenches-”

Elyan’s frowning. “What?”

“El, they _wanted_ us to go that way.”

Elyan scowls. “Told you they were bastards.”

Arthur laughs, short and sharp, but genuine, but he falls silent as they walk, face solemn. Elyan watches him, desperately searching for something, _anything_ to say to distract him from their near death experience. “Hey- did Cenred ever tell you how he lost his ear?”

Arthur keeps his eyes forward. “Not in the mood, El.” He turns his head, frowning. “Keep your eyes forward,” he scowls, “On the trees, top of the ridge. I’m not getting caught with my pants down by some fucking Germans.”

Elyan smiles reassuringly, falling silent as they walk. “Bet you he told you it was shrapnel, didn’t he?”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, waiting for Elyan to continue. He doesn’t, waiting for Arthur to speak, because of course _now_ is when Elyan decides to listen to him and shut up. “What was it, then?” He asks impatiently. 

Elyan grins. “Well,” he starts as they step over a ridge, “His girls a hairdresser, yeah? And he was writing to her, moanin’ and goin’ on about the lack of bathing facilities- I mean, you remember those rancid jakes at Arras, yeah?”

Arthur’s grimace is confirmation enough, and Elyan continues. “Well, she decides to send over some hair oil for him- smells sweet and nice and shit, so of course he fucking loves it, the girl, but he doesn’t want to lug it around in his pack, so-”

Arthur’s hand shoots out to pull him to his side, away from a sharp piece of shrapnel that would’ve sliced clean through his foot. 

“He slathers it all over his barnet,” Elyan continues, as if nothing had happened, “And he goes to sleep, just like normal-” he can’t keep the grin off his face, and Arthur averts his eyes because someone’s grin shouldn’t be so fucking _adorable_ “-but in the middle of the night he wakes up, right, and there’s a giant fucking rat just sitting on his shoulder, licking the bloody oil off his fucking head!”

Arthur laughs, despite himself, head thrown back with the force of it, eyes crinkling.

Elyan’s eyes are on him, and his grin is fond. “So of course he panics, gets himself in a right old mess- jumps up, screaming bloody murder and, when he does, the rat bites clean through his ear and runs off with it!”

Elyan’s laughter joins Arthur, soft but amused, and he feels warm for it. 

The ground dips again, downward out of the burnt copse, and Arthur’s eyes catch a hint of green- a weed poking through the earth. It’s… oddly comforting, seeing a bit of life in an otherwise barren, dead place.

Elyan’s still talking, grinning to himself. “He put that much of the bloody stuff on that he couldn’t wash it off- he was like a magnet for the fucking bastards.” He laughs, a small chuckle. “The rats left _us_ alone, but they couldn’t get enough of _him_ , the poor bastard.”

They step out of the copse, and Arthur’s eyes sweep their surroundings. He can see the two British planes from earlier flying above them; cutting through the sky with a mechanical grace, arcing back on themselves towards the British line. “Heading back home,” he murmurs to himself, shielding his eyes from the sun with a flat palm as he pauses to watch them. “Wonder if they saw…” He trails off as Elyan catches up to him, stopping to watch them, too, for a second before he nudges Arthur with his shoulder. 

“Come on,” he urges. 

They walk in silence until, apropos of nothing, Arthur says- “Well, that’s your medal sorted, then.”

Elyan frowns. “What?”

Arthur waves a hand as if it explains what he said, before realising that it doesn’t. He huffs impatiently. “Lance Corporal Smith showed unusual valour in rescuing a comrade from certain death,” he said, puffing out his chest, pulling a constipated face, and deepening his voice. 

Elyan snorts. “You reckon?” He tilts his head consideringly, grinning. 

Arthur nods, smiling slightly. There’s something in his eyes- a small kernel of pride that makes Elyan feel more heroic and proud than any medal ever will. “I do,” he nods, serious. 

Elyan beams, pleased. “Good,” he nods. “That’s good- since you lost yours and everything.”

Arthur’s face closes off, and he looks down, avoiding Elyan’s gaze. “I didn’t.”

Elyan blinks. “What? What happened to it, then?”

Arthur’s jaw clenches.

“No- seriously, what do you mean?”

Arthur scuffs his toes, kicking something small and hard- it makes a metallic _clink_ as it goes flying. “Swapped it with a French captain,” is all he says. 

“For what?”

He shrugs. “Red wine.”

“What the fuck?”

Arthur’s lips quirk. “I know- should’ve asked for two.” He sees Elyan’s face and shrugs, defensive. “What? I was thirsty.”

Elyan shakes his head. “What a waste.” Arthur doesn’t reply. “You should’ve taken it home, given it to your family.” His voice hardens. “Men have died for that.”

Arthur remains silent, and it annoys Elyan. 

“If _I_ got that medal, I’d take it home, I mean-”

“It’s just a shitty piece of tin,” Arthur snarls. “A shitty piece of tin for a shitty thing in a shitty war. It means fuck all. You hear me? Fuck. All.” He stomps off, but Elyan jogs to catch up to him. 

Arthur’s glowering, waiting for Elyan to say something, but he doesn’t- not until: “It’s not just a piece of tin.” He pauses. “‘S got a ribbon on it.”

Arthur’s face twitches, softening with the effort not to smile, and Elyan beams. But then Arthur swallows, suddenly looking pained. “I hated it,” he admits.

Elyan frowns. “Hated what?”

“Going home.” He does the hand wave thing again, and it makes Elyan smile. “I hated going home; when I knew I couldn’t stay, it _hurt_. The knowledge that I’d have to leave them again, that they might never see me again-” he breaks off, throat bobbing. His eyes are wet, and he blinks rapidly to clear them. 

Elyan swallows, guilty. 

  
  
  
  


-

  
  
  
  


They approach what is left of a short, boundary wall enclosing a suffering orchard. Once, Arthur thinks, it would have been beautiful. He can see the charred remains of some trees, and in their grandeur they would have been impressive; both in height and aesthetic. He brushes his hand against the wall, barely more than a pile of rubble, looking at the trees; cherry trees, he thinks. Their pale blossom is the only colour in sight; the petals cover the ground, crushed underfoot, releasing their sweet perfume. 

Some of the trees, he realises, with slight horror, have been _cut_ down by the retreating Germans. “Jesus, they felled them all.”

Elyan glances at him, still somewhat sheepish, and follows Arthur’s gaze, expression sobering. “Cherries,” he observes, walking through the gap in the wall and plucking a blossom from a dangling branch. He smiles. “Lamberts.” Arthur joins them and they walk through the orchard. “Or maybe they’re Dukes- it’s hard to tell when they’re not in fruit,” he explains.

Arthur glances at him sideways, impressed. “What’s the difference?”

Elyan hums thoughtfully, pleased that Arthur is softening again. “Most people think there’s only one type,” he explains, “But there’s lots of them- Cuthberts, Queen Annes, Montmorencys. Sweet ones, sour ones-”

“How the hell do you know that?”

Elyan ducks his head, almost shy, and it piques Arthur’s interest. “Mum had an orchard, back home,” he says, expression wistful, and now it’s Arthur that feels guilty. 

Elyan had lost his mum at the start of the war during a bombing, before he was drafted; before he was _allowed_ to be drafted. 

“It’s nothing impressive,” he shrugs, and Arthur can’t help but feel that he’s downplaying it. “This time of year it looks like its been snowing.” He holds a hand out, expression nostalgic, as if he’s picturing the sight. “Blossom everywhere, it’s beautiful. Me and Gwen, we used to have to pick them in May. Takes the whole day.”

He’s smiling softly, and Arthur can see how suddenly homesick he is.

He’s angry, suddenly. Angry at the world, angry at the Germans, his own country- angry because this war has taken so _much_ from so many people. Good people.

“Shame about these, then,” is all he says.

Elyan shakes his head, clutching the blossom before letting it drop from his fingers. “No they’ll grow back when the stones rot.” He looks up, as if he can see the trees that will grow. “There’ll be more than before.”

Arthur ponders this as they walk, a silence settling over them. 

There’s a large wall bordering the lower end of the orchard, and, when they reach it, it seems to be, for the most part, still intact. Through the gate they can see a small valley, where they can make out a farmhouse.

“Looks abandoned.” As they near, he can see just how derelict it is; it’s falling apart, and the roof is nothing more than bare timber beams. 

There’s a barn next to it, peppered with bullet holes; he can see where the gunpowder has scorched it.

“Best make sure,” Elyan says, letting Arthur lead the way, rifles raised. They’re on a hill, and they make their way down it, through an old pigsty. Arthur’s eyes don’t leave the building ahead; Elyan’s eyes scan their sides.

Quietly, Arthur gestures Elyan to slow, tossing over his shoulder a low: “I’ll take the front, you take the back.”

Elyan nods, and they split; Arthur’s left to creep forward, unable to help the overwhelming, antsy feeling he’s left with. He licks his lips as he approaches the house; he’s on the small front path, now, and he can see that the door’s open slightly. 

He slips inside, moving silently, ready for any traps or angry Germans, but there is none, to his great disbelief. 

He stands on the threshold, perfectly still. 

He can’t hear anything; nor any _one_. 

The silence burns; it feels _wrong_. 

The place has been trashed, and quite thoroughly so; it’s obvious that the soldiers had destroyed anything in their path. 

He grips his gun tighter, pressing forward, turning right to peer into the - empty - bedroom before moving back into the hallway, spotting Elyan through the window. 

Elyan spies him; “Anything?” He mouths, and Arthur shakes his head. 

Elyan raises an eyebrow, obviously as surprised as Arthur. 

Arthur shrugs, moving through the rest of the house; the kitchen is also empty, and devoid of any food.

It’s worse hit than the rest of the house - windows are smashed, crockery splayed on the floor, obviously thrown from their draw, and he can see some smashed and splintered china on the floor, too. 

“I don’t like this place.”

Elyan makes an agreeing sound, drawing up to his side. They move through the back door and across the garden; it’s barren and dead, full of yellowed grass churned by vehicles and feet and gunfire.

He crosses it, reaching the barn. From here, he can make out several cows, lying in pools of blood and in various stages of decomposition. 

Some of them look like they’ve been pulled apart by birds, much to his faint disgust.

He turns away and, surprisingly, spots a milk urn, which, when he tips the lid off with his booted foot, is full of milk- fresh, cold milk. 

He drops to his knees, cupping his hands and sniffing it; it doesn’t smell off, thank god, and, when he drinks it, it tastes _good_. Months on army food make it taste like heaven.

He senses Elyan enter the barn, watching him before he speaks. “There’s a ridge over there. Ecost is straight over that direction.”

Arthur nods, satisfied. “Good.”

He takes his empty canteen and fills it with the milk, offering the rest to Elyan who just shakes his head.

The drone of plane engines fills the air, and they meet each other’s gaze before moving out to get a better look - there’s three planes in a dogfight. Nasty one, Arthur thinks, squinting. They’re small from this distance, but he can make out that two are British. 

One is German. 

His feet carry him forward with a mind of their own as he watches them fly; it’s loud and violent, but oddly graceful and beautiful. 

“Those our mates again?” Elyan frowns. 

“Looks like it. Dogfight.”

Elyan’s lips quirk. “Who’s winning?”

“Us.” He frowns. “I think- two on one.”

The words have no sooner left his mouth when the German plane goes down, smoke billowing in its wake, following its path to downfall; the British are merciless, guns firing relentlessly, following the German plane before pulling up when it becomes obvious that the German plane is going to crash. 

It’s also clear that it is going to crash right where they are standing, but they’re rooted to the spot, almost mesmerised by the sight of it, until it's almost too close; the pilot’s attempts to glide it prove useless, and it dips, heading right for them.

“Shit-” He steps backwards, stepping quicker as it draws closer, until he’s running, Elyan close behind him- they’re not going to make it, he realises. “Down!” It’s all he has time to yell, throwing himself down on the ground, flattening himself, and Elyan mirrors him, just in time for the plane to pass over them, skimming their backs, crashing into the barn behind them. 

They stand, glancing at each other. 

The plane erupts into fire; it grows quickly, feasting on the wooden skeleton of the barn, and Elyan jerks forward, running for the barn. 

Arthur trails after him, and he reaches the barn in time to see the pilot struggling; the flames are licking at him, at his face and arms, and he’s screaming. He’s going to be burned alive if they don’t pull him out. 

Elyan reaches him first, hands plunging into the fire to pull him out, and Arthur’s there, helping him; together they wrench him free, dragging him away from the plane and onto the dead grass. 

His legs are on fire, and he’s screaming something in German, something they don’t need to understand to see how much damage has been done to him. 

There’s burns on his hands and forearms, on his face, but his legs are worst hit - they’re bleeding, red and scorched, and Arthur winces. 

He’s begging them for help - Arthur may not understand all of what he’s saying, but that much is obvious. He meets Elyan’s gaze, awkward. “Maybe- maybe we should put him out of his misery.”

The pilot howls, and Elyan shakes his head. “No- get some water, he needs water.”

Arthur hesitates, watching Elyan kneel by the soldier, assessing his wounds and murmuring comfort. 

Arthur is reluctant to leave Elyan, but he rushes to the water pump. He can hear Elyan speaking, voice low and soothing, and he can hear the German, too. He sounds scared, and Arthur moves as quick as he can, working the pump, but it’s slow - too slow. 

The water spills out, and he collects it in his helmet, having nothing else. 

He’s turning around when he hears the shouting, and the helmet’s fall from his fingers mirrors the drop of his stomach. 

“Stop- stop!”

It’s Elyan, and Arthur’s running to him but he’s too far away- he can see the German jerk forward, clutching something in his hand, and Elyan screams, agonised. 

It’s a knife, Arthur realises. A knife, bloody with Elyan’s blood as it’s jerked from his abdomen. He’s screaming, screaming for him to stop, feet too slow, but his hands are moving- they grip his gun and he fires, shooting the pilot- his body jerks with the impact, and then again when Arthur shoots him a second time. 

A third time. 

Elyan’s kneeling, looking at his hands, red with his own blood, and Arthur’s still running. “Bastard- bloody, fucking bastard.” He’s laughing, almost hysterical as he staggers to his feet, looking at Arthur. He clutches the wound as he stumbles away from the pilot’s corpse- Arthur can see the blood dribbling down his front, staining his uniform. 

“No,” he’s saying softly, “Oh, God no, please.” He’s crying; reaching for his dressings, but they fall from his shaking hands. 

There’s so much blood. 

There’s so much blood and Arthur’s still too far away. 

Elyan falls to his knees, gasping as he sobs, dressings falling from his hands. “No- Jesus, no.”

Arthur- finally- runs to him, grabbing the dressings. “El- Elly, you’re fine, we just have to stop the bleeding,” he says frantically, trying to reassure him as he fumbles with the dressings, moving ELyan’s hand and holding the bandage against the wound- hard. 

Elyan shouts in pain, and Arthur sobs. 

“Stop it- stop it! Bastard!”

“Hey,” Arthur manages, voice shaking, “It’s alright, it’s going to be alright.” He swallows. “We’re- we’re going to stand up, yeah?” He wraps his hands around Elyan’s webbing. 

“Yeah- yeah.”

Elyan grimaces, setting his feet, and Arthur wrenches him up harshly. Elyan screams, slumping back down. “No- no I can’t,” he cries, “I can’t.”

There’s so much blood. 

“We have to- El, we have to.” He’s begging, crying. “We have to.”

“I can’t.”

“No- I’ll carry you, it’s not far.”

Elyan shakes his head, panting. “Just bring a doctor here,” he tries. 

Arthur swallows, looking around for help, but there isn’t any, there never fucking is. They’re alone. 

For the first time, Arthur wishes they weren’t.

“We can’t- we have to go together-” His hands grip Elyan, desperate. “Come on- get up, we’re getting up.” He grabs his friend under his arms, trying to lift him, but Elyan can’t support his own weight and his legs buckle, useless. 

“No!” Elyan screams. “No- stop it! Please!” He’s crying. “Please.”

Arthur’s crying too as he starts to drag him- the more ELyan struggles the more blood he loses. He’s screaming, flailing, clawing at Arthur’s chest and neck, spitting blood- he’s struggling against the pain, but Arthur keeps dragging him, sobbing; ugly, fat tears. He hasn’t cried like this since his mother died. “Put me down- fucking put me down, you bastard! Please, please put me down!”

They fall backwards, slumping against the ground, and Arthur moves to face Elyan, silent tears streaming down his face. 

Elyan’s shaking. 

Arthur’s never been this panicked, this scared in his life as he removes the blood-soaked bandage from the wound and presses a fresh one in its place. “You’ve got to try to keep moving- Elly- Elly listen to me-”

Elyan’s weakening- his eyes fluttering. His hand reaches for Arthur’s and it’s weak. “Let’s just sit- let me sit.”

“We can’t,” Arthur begs, “We have to find the second- we have to find your sister, remember? We can’t stay here, we’ve got to keep moving.”

Elyan’s not lucid- his eyes are already glazing. “Go on without me,” he manages, “I’ll catch up.” He smiles weakly, and his teeth are covered with blood. 

“You can’t stay here- we have to move, alright? We have to move, we have to-” He breaks off, swallowing thickly. “Come on. Come _on_ ,” he growls, “That’s it- come on, come on-” he wraps an arm around Elyan’s back, the other around his legs, and, with all his might, heaves Elyan upward.

Elyan howls in pain, but he ignores it- he has to.

But it’s useless. Try as he might- with all his fucking strength- he can’t do it. Elyan’s a dead weight and he can’t lift him. 

They drop again, and Arthur pants, desperate. “Your sister- we have to find her, yeah?”

Elyan’s breathing is jagged and uneven, coming in short bursts. 

“You’ll recognise her- she looks like me,” he smiles, “Just… older.”

“And a girl,” Arthur tries, earning an amused huff from Elyan. He’s holding Elyan’s head, cradling it, tears falling on his forehead and sloping down the curves of his face. 

His hands are covered in blood, and there’s a fine tremor to them. 

Behind them he can hear the barn burning- can hear the timber falling to the ground, and embers, angry and red, drift across the sky. Elyan, lying on his back, stares up at them, confused. “What’re they? We being shelled?”

Arthur swallows. “They’re embers, the barn is on fire.” 

Elyan blinks, looking bewildered. Then he grimaces in pain. “I’ve been hit?”

Arthur doesn’t know how to answer- how do you tell your brother you let him die? He swallows thickly, still crying. “You- you were stabbed,” he manages finally. 

Elyan’s surprise is like a stab to the gut- he’s too far gone, he’s lost too much blood. His throat bobs as he swallows, and Arthur watches his hand feel for his wound- it lands on Arthur’s, where he’s holding the bandage, trying in vain to stem the blood flow. 

Fear, real, visceral fear. That’s all Arthur can see in Elyan’s eyes. “Am I dying?” His voice is soft, and Arthur can’t answer.

“Yes- I think you are.”

Elyan’s lips form a surprised ‘O’, followed by a sad twist. Oh.

His hand moves to his pocket, tapping it with slender fingers, and Arthur, guessing his meaning, moves with red fingers and pulls out a wallet. “This?”

“Inside,” he gasps.

Arthur opens it- inside he can see letters and a photograph. It’s Elyan with his father and his sister; he holds it for Elyan to see, and he smiles slowly. Arthur presses it into his hand and moves it to his breast. “Will you write to my dad for me?”

Arthur nods once. “Of course,” he assures him. 

“Tell him I wasn’t scared.”

A nod. 

Elyan’s eyes flutter, and Arthur swallows, finally moving his hand from his wound to clutch Elyan’s. “A-anything else?”

Elyan’s crying. Softly. The tears trace his cheeks, spilling onto the ground. “I love them,” he sobs. “I love them. I wish- I wish-”

Arthur clutches his hand even tighter, finger brushing along his forehead. 

“Talk to me,” he begs.

Arthur swallows; he has no idea what to say. 

“Tell me- tell me you know the way.” It's frantic, desperate. 

“I know the way,” Arthur manages, choked. He swallows, fighting to keep his voice even. This- this is what Elyan needs. He needs to know Arthur can do it. “I know the way. I’m going to head south east until I hit Ecoust. I’ll pass through the town and out to the east, all the way to Croisilles Wood.”

Weakly, Elyan says- “It’ll be dark then.”

Arthur grips his hand. “That won’t bother me,” he promises, “I’ll find the second, I’ll give them the message, and then I’ll find your sister- just like you, a little older…”

Elyan’s hand has slackened in his, and his chest isn’t moving. 

His breathing has stopped. 

Lying there, dead and still, he looks so painfully young and Arthur is frozen; he cradles his head, bent over him, he presses their foreheads together, a single sob escaping him. 

His breathing is hard- but he forces himself to move. Determined, he rummages through his friend’s tunic, taking the now bloodstained message for the second; his fingers are red with Elyan’s blood, and they smear even more blood on the letter.

He ignores it, stowing it in his top pocket and pulls the map from Elyan’s tunic with steady, robotic movements; it’s soaked through with blood, illegible, so he throws it away. 

With hands that don’t shake- he refuses to let them shake, he has things to do before he can break down- he tugs off each of Elyan’s rings before going for his throat and tugging at Elyan’s identity disk, tearing it off the twine. 

He pries the photograph from his hand, smoothing it out before securing it inside his tunic, right over his tunic, placing his hand over it. 

He looks around, seeing a patch of long grass next to the pond, and heaves at Elyan’s torso. It is entirely different now that he is dead.

Nothing is heavier than the dead body of someone you loved.

He’s struggling with it, face hard, fighting back the all-consuming grief that threatens to overcome him when he hears a voice. 

“You alright, mate?”

He looks up, eyes flat as he sees two British privates.

The second one takes in Elyan’s lifeless body, and his face shifts in understanding. “It’s alright- it’s okay,” he says gently.

The one that first spoke nods. “Come on, help him.”

Together, they move towards him and take Elyan’s legs. Together, the three of them move him towards the long grass. “Jesus,” the first one says, “What happened to him?”

Arthur grits his teeth. 

“Was it the plane?” The second one asks. “We saw the smoke.”

He nods. “Yes.”

They lower Elyan down, and Arthur kneels by his head. Lost. 

There’s a gentle voice- “Go fetch his things,” - and the two privates amble off to collect Arthur’s helmet and rifle.

Arthur only looks up when the voice asks him- “A friend?”

He nods.

“What are you doing here?” He’s a captain, Arthur recognises dimly. 

“I have an urgent message for the second Devons. Orders to stop tomorrow morning’s attack.”

“Where are they stationed?”

“Just beyond Eocust.”

The captain moves towards the farmhouse, but Arthur doesn’t move. He can’t look away from Elyan. The captain stops, looking back. “Come with me, Corporal. That’s an order.”

Arthur drags his eyes away from Elyan to look at him. 

“We’re passing through Ecoust. We can take you some of the way.”

Arthur swallows. “Sir.” He’s relieved- he doesn’t think he has the strength to carry on. Using the grass, he wipes the blood off his hands, looking to Elyan one last time before moving after the Captain. 

He accepts his helmets from the privates and follows them through the farmhouse back into the road where there’s a small convoy of four trucks. They’re idle, caked in mud, obviously stopped to investigate the plane. There’s soldiers hanging around, taking advantage of the break to smoke and stretch their legs. 

Arthur barely even sees them. 

At the head of the small convoy is an Officer’s car- exhaust fumes swirl in the air, thick and clogging at the back of his throat; mud has dried on the undercarriage and the wheel arches, brown and flaking. 

The colonel’s shouting, annoyed. “Oh, come on Sergeant- put more men at the base. At the trunk! It’ll be heavier there…”

The trucks, Arthur sees, are filled with Soldiers; packed tight like sardines. 

The Captain nudges him in the direction of one truck. “Might be a tight squeeze.”

Arthur doesn’t care. 

There’s a tree blocking the road- obviously that was deliberate on the Germans’ part; several soldiers are gathered around, trying to lift it. 

They’re failing. 

“No,” the Colonel is shouting, “You’re not going to be able to just _lift_ it. Pivot the front end to the left-” He’s growing frustrated, barking orders and insults.

The Colonel is muttering to himself under his breath before he turns to the driver, sat next to him. “Jesus, they don’t make things easy, do they? They could at least have retreated with a bit of grace.” He spits. “Bastards”

“Sir-” The Captain interrupts him, and, at his voice, the Colonel turns to see him and Arthur. 

He frowns, confused. “You’re not one of mine.”

Arthur shakes his head. “No, Sir.”

The Colonel raises an eyebrow, glancing to the Captain. 

“He’s got an urgent message to deliver to the second Devons, Sir.”

This time _both_ of the Colonel’s eyebrows raise, and he looks back to the tree, humming thoughtfully. “Does he now?” The men have managed to shift the felled tree a few feet to the left, but it’s not enough, and it’s slow progress. He addresses the driver. “Can you get past it?”

“No, Sir.”

“For God’s sake- just move it!” The Colonel calls out to the men, annoyed. 

The Captain clears his throat delicately, and Arthur stands there awkwardly. “There’s room in the casuals truck, Sir. He has orders-”

“Yes, yes, alright.” The Colonel waves his hand dismissively. His attention is with the driver- “Come, now- you can get through there _sideways_!”

The driver visibly bites his tongue and soon the car is rolling forward; easing its way down the road.

The Captain moves off as the Colonel’s car begins to manoeuvre its way around the tree, shaking his head slightly, Arthur close at his side. They walk past the row of trucks, each one filled with soldiers, and Arthur almost can’t believe how many men can be squeezed inside.

“How did you get here, sir?” He asks as they walk; his voice is hoarse, so he clears his throat, eyes fluttering as he clears them.

This is no time to grieve, he reminds himself. 

The Captain glances sideways at him. “Crossed No Man’s Land just outside of Bapaume. It took us the whole bloody night,” he scowls. “Had a nasty encounter with some German stragglers.”

“Made a nuisance of themselves, sir?” Arthur tries for a smile, and the Captain’s lips quirk.

“Indeed, Lance Corporal.” He stares at Arthur for a moment, something sad and sympathetic crossing his face, but- mercifully- he doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t address the hollowness Arthur can feel within himself without Elyan by his side.

He feels like he’s lost a limb; Elyan’s presence was a given, most of the time- they’d follow each other to the ends of the world- hell, this _was_ going to the end of the world for each other, and look how that ended. 

He’d always thought _he’d_ be the one to die first, out of the two of them. Had counted on it.

He didn’t know what to do, left all alone in the middle of a seemingly endless war. Now… now he’s scared for it to end; the realisation that he will have to face the _world_ alone is a terrifying one, and it leaves him cold and bitter.

“You’re going up to the new line?” He forces himself to push it all aside- later, he’ll deal with it later. 

He can’t deal with it now. 

The Captain nods. “We’re attempting to,” he explains. “The Newfoundlands have pushed forwards and are requesting reinforcements.”

Arthur nods, not really listening; they’re approaching the last truck, and the Captain pauses, waiting for Arthur to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry about your friend.” His voice is soft, gentle, and Arthur balls his hands into fists against it, forcing himself to nod. “Can I tell you something? Something you probably already know.”

Arthur looks to him, waiting mutely.

“It doesn’t do to dwell on it.”

He was right; Arthur did know that. It’s a shame that it doesn’t make it any easier, though, isn’t it? “No, Sir.”

There are men around them, smoking, and they startle when they reach the rear of the truck, jerking to attention. The Captain ignores them; simply gestures with his head with a ‘hop on’ and leaves.

Arthur swallows, glancing into the truck where the men are climbing back in; there’s barely enough room for him, but they help him help him up and he squeezes in alongside them, silent and listening.

They don’t pay him much attention- they have little care for the strange hitchhiker, and soon they’re talking amongst themselves. 

It’s all talk Arthur’s heard before, soldiers taking the piss out of each other to lighten the mood and forget, just for one moment, that they’re heading to their deaths.

Arthur’s gaze remains fixed on the road as the farmhouse disappears behind them.

_Good riddance_.

The men turn bawdy, loud and mirthful as they rib each other, mimicking their superiors and telling tales meant to amuse. Their laughter fills the truck, and Arthur hates it.

He clenches his jaw, slumping slightly where he sits, letting himself disappear into the noise of the men.

Arthur is antsy as the truck moves on, suspension bouncing them up and down on the uneven road, and he checks his watch. 

He’s running out of time. 

“Got somewhere to be, do ya?” One of them asks; it’s not cruel- or at least, not meant to be- but it rankles Arthur. 

He’s saved from answering when the truck lurches, shooting him up and to the side, straight into the soldier at his side. Engine groaning, tires spinning in vain. They’re swamped in the wet mud, and Arthur wants to scream. 

The driver revs the engine, but it’s in vain, and the truck only sinks deeper into the mud. 

Arthur stands, ignoring the moans from the soldiers, and jumps out, inspecting the bogged wheel. The truck had wandered off the road in an attempt to avoid another felled tree, but had driven straight into a muddy ditch. 

Arthur curses. “We need to reverse it,” he says and a nearby soldier shrugs in agreement. 

“Yeah.”

Nothing gets done, though, so Arthur shouts to the driver; “Try it in reverse- _reverse!_ ”

The engine revs again, and the wheel is spinning, but the truck’s not moving. In fact, it’s only sinking deeper into the ditch. 

The engine cuts out as the driver stops, and Arthur, who has been fighting against the urge to cry for too long, now, can feel himself edging closer to breaking. He’s stood on the brink of it, and one more thing will topple him off into the abyss. 

“Everyone needs to get out,” he calls to the soldiers in the back of the truck. “Get out!” He waves his hand, impatient, and, with some grumbling, most of the men climb to their feet and drop out. “All of you.” 

The rest of them slowly clamber to their feet, and he curses. “Fucking- come _on!_ ”

“Alright, alright,” one of them says, “Keep your bloody hair on.”

They’re all out of the truck, now, and Arthur steps forward, hands braced on the step. “Right- one, two- three!”

They push; the tires spin, useless, but they’re not strong enough. Most of the men step back, shrugging, but Arthur grits his teeth, pushing will all his might, neck and arms straining with the effort.

There’s a wild, desperate look on his face that takes some of the men aback, and gets some of them to begrudgingly help. 

“Fuck!” He screams. It’s no use- it’s no fucking use.”I- I have to go,” his voice break, and his eyes are wet. “I have to go _now_ \- please I don’t have time.”

There’s a shared look between the men, and they all step forward this time, pushing together, and-

The truck suddenly moves, the wheels gaining traction as it manages to pull itself out of the ditch, lurching forward.

Arthur falls forward in the mud, and he’s panting as he gets to his knees. His fists are clenching and unclenching as he tries to get his composure, struggling not to cry.

He’s so _tired_. 

“Are you alright?” One of the men pulls him to his feet, a hand on his shoulder, and he nods. Sure, it says, I’m as fine as any of us are.

The man smiles slightly, wry. Fair enough.

“We- we need to get back in.”

They all clamber back into the truck, and Arthur’s throat bobs with emotion and they set off again, truck bobbing and dipping. 

This time, though, the men are quiet, and they’re staring at him. He fights the urge to shift uncomfortably, to snap at them.

“Where are you going?” One of them asks. It’s the man who helped him up, a kind-faced Indian man with soft, understanding eyes.

He recognises the pain in Arthur's.

“I have to get to the second Devons,” he says by rote. His voice is horrid; flat and empty. “Just past Ecoust.”

“Why?”

“They’re attacking at dawn. I have orders to stop them.”

“How come?” Its a different man that’s spoken up; he’s young, as young as Elyan was. Barely a man. Arthur closes his eyes. Far too young for the horrors of war, and _far_ too young to die.

“They’re walking into a trap. It’ll be a fucking massacre.”

There’s a collective wince amongst the men. “How many?”

“Sixteen hundred.”

They’re brought up short, and there’s a quiet, disbelieving curse. “ _Shit_.”

“And they sent you on your own?”

Arthur swallows. “They didn’t. There were two of us.”

The was two, but now there is only one, and the men understand the implications of that. “So now its down to you,” one of them says gravely.

Arthur nods. “Yes.” For Elyan, for Gwen, for the sixteen hundred men that don’t deserve to die; for all the Elyans out there this war will claim. He won’t fail.

“You’ll never make it.”

Arthur’s eyes open, and they’re hard as steel; within them is the stubborn determination that Elyan possessed. He meets the soldier’s eyes. “Yes,” he says; firm, unyielding. “I will.”

One of them smiles and offers him their whisky, and he accepts it, tilting his head back and taking a large gulp; his throat moves with the motion, exposing the long line, the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows, the sharp line of his jaw. 

A jaw that’s flecked red with the blood of his friend; a throat that’s streaked with sweat, dirt and tears.

“Thank you.”

Silence falls over them as the truck continues to move, sweeping past a small hamlet; Arthur can see the remains of what were once houses. Now, they’re nothing more than rubble and firewood. 

As they pass, he can see the fields. The fields that are littered with dead cows, shot by the Germans.

Anything to keep them from finding food, Arthur thinks.

Suddenly, the truck slows to a stop, and Arthur bites his lip anxiously. “Bridge is down,” the driver calls, and he curses under his breath. 

He’ll have to make his own way. 

“Looks like I’ll be getting out here,” he says. “Good luck.”

The soldiers nod, wishing him luck in return as he steps out, dropping onto the ground. 

He’s still a long way from his destination, and he needs to hurry. The Captain from before spies him and waves him over. “You’re separating?”

“I can’t stay with you if you’re diverting, I don’t have the time.”

The Captain smiles sadly. “Of course, I understand.” He offers his hand, and Arthur shakes it. “Best of luck, Lance Corporal.”

Arthur forces a smile. “Thank you, Sir.”

He moves to leave when the Captain drops a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. He looks hesitant, uncertain. “Before you go-,” he glances at Arthur, considering. “If you do manage to get to Colonel du Lac,” he says carefully, “Make sure there are witnesses.” There’s meaning to his voice, and Arthur blinks in the face of it. 

“Sir? They’re direct orders.”

The Captain nods.”I know, but… some men only want the fight.”

Arthur’s taken aback, but he nods. “Thank you, Sir,” he says dutifully. 

The Captain gives him one last, searching look before nodding to himself, obviously satisfied, calling to the driver as he steps away, and Arthur watches as the small convoy drives away, slowly getting smaller as it heads into the horizon. 

When it disappears from view, he turns his attention to his newest of seemingly never ending obstacles- the remains of the bridge. It’s wrecked; shattered and blown to bits, there’s no way it will support his weight. 

It’s little more than twisted metal dipping into the water.

In the distance, he can see Ecoust. 

He can _see_ it; the relief almost sends him to his knees, but he takes a deep breath. 

It’s a jagged silhouette on the horizon, still a distance from him and the canal between it and him is a large on; it’s stone side are deep and steep, and he can make out bits of wood and detritus floating on the surface of the water.

On the bank across from him he can see the remains of a lock house- windows blown in and the roof collapsed, it’s a mess; abandoned and eerie in the dusk. 

Arthur surveys the area, trying to see a way across, but it looks like there’s only the bridge, as destroyed as it is.

It’s collapsed, slanting form is menacing; the water looks cold and rapid.

“Fuck it.”

He steps gingerly along it, careful as he can, climbing up onto the balustrade, hauling himself up as slowly as possible, tired muscles aching with the strain, and starts inching down it. The water draws closer with each step, and his legs are shaking. It takes all his effort not to lose his balance and topple into the water beneath him. 

He treads carefully until- finally- he reaches the base of the slop. There’s half of the bridge remaining, and about eight feet of water between him and it; he’s going to have to jump, he realises, shifting his weight in preparation. His face hardens as he sucks in a cold lungful of air, muscles bunching as he prepares to jump-

The crack of the gunshot echoes; and his mind goes blank. His lunge is driven by pure instinct as he leaps, landing- only just- on the other side of the bridge. His foot slips, and his hands are almost too cold and weak to hold his weight.

He lets out a shaky breath, barely hanging onto the smooth metal with his fingers- he jerks in a full body flinch as another shot rings out, deafeningly loud in the quietness. The water sloshes as the bullet slices through it, angry and hot with the force of the bullet.

He barely has time to adjust when another is fired- it hits the metal near his hand, and he splutters out a curse, scrambling along the bridge, pulling himself over towards the far bank as swiftly as he can. 

When the fourth bullet whips through the air he drops down, throwing himself into the cover of the far bank wall; trembling slightly as he crouches, flexing his hands. His chest his heaving, heart rate erratic as he presses himself as close to the stone bank as possible, keeping low as he presses forward.

The shots, he realises, are coming from the lock house, on the upper floor. There’s a window, and from it he can make out the glint indicative of a sniper, and he screws his face up in annoyance. 

“Fucking bastards,” he grumbles, sliding along the bank. He reaches a small stairwell set into the wall of the canal bank and he sidles into it, taking what little cover it provides. “Come on, come on-” he grits, and, sure enough, there’s another gun shot- the crack sounding like thunder. 

It scorches the air as it flies, spiralling into the stone as he darts to the other side of the stairs. 

The sniper’s good; but he’s fought with better. 

He swallows, forcing his shaking hands to steady as he readies his rifle, lifting it with clumsy fingers; they’re slow, too damn slow, as he loads it, curing all the while under his breath. He needs to climb to the top of the stairs to take the shot, and he closes his eyes, gathering all his strength and courage before crawling up them peering over to line up his shot-

The next bullet buries itself in the stone next to his head, and he holds back the flinch, leaning into the shadow of the wall and lining up his rifle; his finger squeezes the trigger, and his bullet is released, free as it flies in the air.

It’s returned by the shooter, and he aims again; this time, he is met with silence.

He clutches his rifle, waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

His heart is thundering in his chest, louder than any gunfire as he stands there, trembling like a leaf. His body is exhausted, scared and cold, and the adrenaline isn’t enough to keep him from feeling a sharp pain as he fires another two bullets at the lock house.

Again, he is met with silence.

He glances down at his hand; he’s sliced it, probably on the bridge. All he can do is quickly wrap a bandage around it and hope he can keep it steady when the time comes. 

He steps forward on shaky legs, advancing on the lock house with caution; but when he pushes open the door and moves inside, he’s met with silence. 

No enemies.

At least, not yet, he thinks wrly. It’s only a matter of time.

There is a staircase before him, and he pauses. His ears are met with silence- a deafening silence that sends a shudder crawling up his spine, dragging cold fingers along his back. 

He holds his breath, waiting. 

Nothing.

The only sounds he hears is the creaking of the wood under his boots as he steps, backing against the wall, rifle aimed at the top of the stairs. 

His heart won’t calm as he moves up, staying low and against the wall, not even when he peers up, seeing the door to the upper room. He moves across the landing, pushing at the door with his toes, cringing as it creaks; old and rusty, it moves painfully slowly and agonisingly loud.

There’s a soldier. 

German, slumped against the wall, grievously injured, but Arthur barely has time to acknowledge his state because there’s a gun aimed at his fucking face, and his finger pulls the trigger before he can move out of the way, and-

Both guns fire. 

The German’s eyes fade; lifeless.

Arthur- Arthur is luckier. The bullet hits his helmet, the force of it sending him careening backwards down the stairs, tumbling until he lands at the base of them, slumped and unconscious.

  
  
  
  
  


-

  
  
  
  


His head hurts.

That’s the first thing he recognises; it’s throbbing, and there’s a sharp pain on his temple. He doesn’t know why, why it send a lancing bolt of fear through him, but it does.

The blackness is the second.

Night has fallen.

He lurches forward with a sickening sense of horror- no, no, no, no, no! He’s seized by panic, held tight in her iron claw as he scrambles to a sitting position. 

He’s disorientated, confused- he knows, with an innate, bone-deep certainty, that he has to be somewhere, he has to do something- _now-_ but he can’t recall _what_ . He forces his breathing to slow, hand clumsily fumbling for his rifle. It’s not by him- and he _knows_ that isn’t right.

He spies it above him, at the top of the stairs, and it _hurts_ when he crawls to it; slowly, too slowly, hurry _up_.

His hand closes around it just as the room fills with a sudden, blinding light- a flare. It crosses the sky, a bright line of light, illuminating the room, and the dead German soldier slumped against the wall. 

Arthur swears, jerking back reflexively. 

Dead. His shoulders slump in relief and he pulls himself to his feet and moves back down the stairs.

The sky, when he steps outside, is inky black; pinpricks of white cluster around a yellow moon, and a second flare streaks across it, leaving a faint wake in its path.

He swallows; everything feels _off_. Whether it’s the eerie darkness, the silence, or the way the shadows dance and play with the landscape, he doesn’t know; perhaps it’s just his head wound, slowly oozing blood down the side of his face. 

He moves forward, walking unsteadily through Ecoust; in the darkness, he can’t make out what is a shadow and what is a ditch, so his steps are uncertain, and his breath is held, caught in his throat with the suspense. 

Every step feels like it’ll sink through the ground and he’ll be sent sinking into the darkness, unable to get out.

He’ll have failed, and Elyan will have died for nothing.

He grits his teeth against the thought, moving forward with renewed determination. That won’t happen, it _can’t_ happen; and so it won’t.

His foot sinks into a small puddle with a slight _splash_ just as there’s a loud crack of a bullet; it flies through the air cheerily, freezing his blood.

He can’t see in the dark, he can’t make out the fucking sniper. He spins on the spot, hands clammy, heart racing- the next shot could go through his fucking _head_ \- he’s lucky the first one _didn’t_.

“Shit,” he curses as there’s another gunshot, and he runs- he sprints as fast as he can on his weak legs, he runs and he runs, rifle clutched in his hands, pack bouncing on his back with each step, each slap of his boots on the hard ground.

The light of the flare fades, and he’s blind. 

He’s running blind and he’s fucking terrified because there’s another fucking gunshot, and then the distinct _hiss_ of another flare, and then-

He can see, he can make out some cover- rubble- and he throws himself at it, shoulder banging it with a thud, and he grimaces at the pain, but huddles down, breath coming in short bursts as he waits.

He waits, and he waits, and he waits, until the light finally dies again, and he’s surrounded by the thick blanket of darkness. 

All sound ceases; his heartbeat is like thunder in the suddenly still, silent night.

He’s on his feet and running under the cover of darkness, forcing one foot in front of the other, not stopping, not even when there’s another flare; it sweeps over him and he slips into what is left of a shop- bombed out rubble.

The light dies again, just as he turns into a small, uncomfortably tight alley way.

There’s light at the end of it, small and flickering, but it’s _there_ and he pushes his way towards it, mouth dry and whole body shaking. Adrenaline and fear can only do so much.

He steps out onto a street, wide, open, and he shudders against the feeling of vulnerability, turning his head to glance left and right- there, to his left, he can make out a main square, and just beyond, he can make out the thick, clogging smoke of something large burning.

He swallows, glancing right, but when he moves, he’s heading down towards the square, nervous and cautious.

It’s ruined; barely recognisable. Colonnades run around most of the square, and massive sections of it are riddled with gaps; massive holes of swirling black. Whole buildings are _gone_ , blown to smithereens like they were never there, their existence wiped from the face of the earth. It’s staggering, and Arthur pauses, feeling vaguely sick; his blood runs hot with anger. This war has claimed too much, has gone too far. It’s destruction is everywhere he looks, he can’t escape it.

There’s a Church, in the far corner of the square; it’s burning merrily, flames dancing and leaping high into the night sky, and Arthur is, momentarily, mesmerized by it. 

It crackles, and, out of the corner of his eye, he detects movement.

His stomach drops and his blood freezes, body automatically tensing. It’s a soldier, and he’s frozen, too, weapon lowered.

From here, even with his sharp eyes, Arthur can’t make out if he’s German or British- he can’t see his uniform, can only see him lift his gun and then-

He’s running.

He’s running right at him, straight at him, gun levelled at his _face_ and Arthur sprints. 

That’ll be a German, then.

His feet carry him through the colonnade as he runs, ducking as the German shoots at him, not stopping- he _can’t_ stop- and he runs for the side street, gritting his teeth as he pushes forward, forcing himself to pick up speed, the German’s shouting sounding further away as he runs, spotting a low window.

It’s about knee height, and he dives for it, tugging with all his might but it’s no use. It’s locked.

The German’s getting closer- each thundering step sends his heart rate spiking, his breathing more laboured. 

Shit- _shit_!

There’s a coal chute. It’s beside the window, and it’s small, but he doesn’t have time to open the window, so he gets on his hands and knees and crawls, scrambling into it as fast as he can into the blackness.

He keeps his rifle close as he steps back into the shadows, clutching it to his chest, breath painfully loud as he hears the sounds of the German getting closer. 

His feet are slapping on the ground, and he’s shouting- something in German that Arthur doesn’t understand, but its meaning is unmistakable; as it the anger, the venom in his voice.

He clamps a hand to his mouth until the German passes, still crouched in the shadows, eyes closing.

Something urges him to wait, to linger in the shelter, just in case the German double backs on himself, so he does. He waits, and he waits, until he finally relaxes fractionally, looking around.

The cellar is small, cramped, and his eyes are sweeping the far side when he sees it.

At the far end, he can see a small door; there’s something hung across the doorway, something thick and heavy, and he can see the flicker of a small flame through it.

His eyes narrow, and he steps forward, silent. His rifle, still clutched in his hands, is raised, and he points it at the doorway, as he advances, nudging aside the fabric to reveal a small room. 

There’s a makeshift fire, and food and blankets surround it.

Somebody’s here, and they’re hiding. 

His rifle moves automatically as he senses movement, whipping it around and pointing it straight at the woman, frozen in fear, crouched in the corner.

She’s young- not even yet into her twenties, and she’s terrified. Trembling, she raises her hands, eyes filling with a fear so strong it makes Arthur sick to his stomach. 

“Please,” she begs in French, “There is nothing here- we have _nothing_ , please.”

Arthur curses softly, lowering his rifle onto the ground and holding his hands up, too. He tries to look as un-intimidating as possible, softening his face, speaking low and soft. “Not German,” he says, in broken French, before switching to English. “I’m a friend, I’m not here to hurt you.”

The wild look in her eyes calms slightly, and her throat bobs as she swallows. 

“This place, this town-” he steps forward, voice urgent, “Ecoust? C’est Ecoust?”

She nods, once. 

Arthur closes his eyes in relief. Thank God. 

He sways slightly, head suddenly throbbing. 

She looks concerned. “Ou sont les autres?” _Where are the others?_

He frowns, mind foggy. Others? “Just me,” he manages, voice coming out thick, like treacle. He blinks in the face of her blank look. “Me,” he says, “Just me. Only me.”

Her eyes widen, understanding dawning on her face. 

“I-” he blinks again. “I need to be somewhere, I need to find a wood, to the south east?”

She stares at him, uncomprehending, and he bites back the curse, the frustration, and struggles to keep his voice even, trying to remember his French. “Trees… les arbres?” He frowns, mind too slow as he searches through it. “Croiset?” He tries, and she perks.

“Croisilles?”

He nods. “Yes- yes!”

She points in the direction. “La riviere-”

“River?” He recognises that word at least, and it’s blinding relief.

“River. It go there. Trees. Croisilles.” Her English is broken, heavily accented, but he understands. 

“Thank you,” he says, fighting back a sudden wave of nausea. He’s swaying again, a bolting lance of pain shooting through his head, and his stomach rolls. 

He must grimace, because she steps closer, motioning for him to sit on the chair by the fire, and, dumbly, he obeys, blinking up at her as he drops heavily into the small, wooden chair. 

She watches him carefully, eyes softening as she places her hand on his wound. “Sh,” she shushes when he startles. “Shh.”

He swallows, letting her inspect his wound, parting his hair, damp and thick with congealing blood, and flinches when she finds it. There’s a moment, a moment that hangs heavy in the air as she looks, her breath warm on his skin, and then she’s shifting, reaching for a handkerchief that she presses with a gentleness that is foreign to Arthur. It makes him want to cry for some odd, inexplicable reason. 

“Thank you,” he struggles.

She opens her mouth, but is interrupted by another sound, a soft, small thing that, while Arthur doesn’t have a child of his own, instantly recognises. 

It’s a baby.

She moves, swift, to the corner of the little room, kneeling. There’s an old matress, and, next to it, is a drawer from an old chest. It’s wooden- strong, sturdy, and it’s lined with cloth. 

Within it, lies a baby: impossibly small, frighteningly delicate. 

She cradles it to her chest, and Arthur feels a fresh wave of nausea strike him, though, this time, it is unrelated to his head. 

A _baby_ , in the middle of a war ground. 

He can’t take his eyes off them, it’s so small, can’t be more than a few months old. 

“A girl?”

She nods, a small, proud smile gracing her lips. “Ma petite.”

He smiles, and he kneels down beside her as the baby begins to cry, reaching hesitantly with a finger. When she doesn’t move to stop him, he traces it across the chubby, cherublike cheek. 

He wants to cry, he wants to cry because it’s a fucking _baby_ born into this hellish world, all too small and innocent, just like Elyan, and she’ll probably not even make it to see her first birthday. 

He swallows thickly. “What’s her name?”

Her face falls, suddenly tragically sad. “J’’ne sais pas.” 

Jesus, he thinks, she doesn’t know. He meets her gaze. “Who’s her mother?”

Again, she doesn’t know. 

He closes his eyes, struggling with the overwhelming sadness that brings him, before he moves. He goes for his pack, almost frantic, and rummages through it, until- 

“Here.” He’s holding his rations in his hand, offering them to her. When she doesn’t move, he shakes it slightly. “I have food. Take it= you can have them all, for her. Here,” he repeats, almost begging. 

He can’t leave them without food. Not if it will help them survive for just one more day. 

He empties his food onto the mattress, and she’s staring at him, an undisguised hunger and want in her eyes. But, on her face, is a look of hopelessness.

He doesn’t understand. 

“Elle ne peut pas manger ca,” she says at his confusion, “elle a besoin de lait…” She frowns, frustrated, as she searches for the word in English. “Milk.”

He blinks, suddenly understanding. 

His shoulders slump, before he brightens. He _has_ milk- and if that’s the only good thing that came out of that fucking farmhouse, then he’ll be glad to see it go. His fingers, slow, cold, and clumsy, move to unclip his canteen from his belt, and he opens it, holding it out for her to smell. 

She looks up at him, amazed, mouth curling into a wide, tentatively hopeful smile. 

“Take it,” he offers, watching as she does, pressing it to the baby’s lips. 

He watches her drink. “Bonjour,” he smiles, softly, when her eyes move to his. She doesn’t look away. 

The woman is smiling. “She likes you,” she says in French, and he shifts, uncomfortable. Nobody _likes_ him. “Keep talking.”

He opens his mouth, unspeaking, searching for something, anything, to say, but the only thing he can think of is- “They went to sea in a Sieve they did, in a Sieve they went to sea: in spite of all their friends could say, on a winter’s morn, on a stormy day, in a Sieve they went to sea.” 

They baby’s eyes penetrate to his soul, and his voice catches. “Far and few, far and few, are the lands where Jumblies live; their heads are green, and their hands are blue, and they went to see in a Sieve.”

She’s silent, transfixed on him, mouth opening and closing in delight.

He’s smiling, and they’re watching each other, silent, when the church bells toll. He startles, horrified. God, he’d wasted time, too much. 

His heart sinks, and he swallows, moving to his feet and gathering his pack.

The woman watches, him, confused. She’s begging him to stay, but he can’t- he can’t wait like she want’s, he doesn’t have time. 

“I have to go.” He doesn’t meet her eyes as he grabs his rifle. “I’m sorry.”

He leaves. 

He leaves, and he can feel her eyes boring into his back as he steps through the doorway, climbs up the stairs and onto the empty street. 

His body feels even heavier, even more exhausted than before. 

He didn’t know it could.

  
  
  
  


-

  
  
  
  
  


The night is silent.

The sun isn’t up yet as he moves down the street, and it’s a small relief. He still has time. 

He reaches a crossroads, and, hesitantly, turns into the wide alleyway on his right, silent and swift, when there’s a sudden, loud noise. He ducks into the nearest shadow dark enough to conceal him as a German soldier stumbles out of the door he’d kicked open, light spilling onto the dark street, drunk as a skunk. 

He stumbles a few steps before vomiting, moaning all the while, and Arthur fights to stop his hands from shaking, backing inside the doorway while the German’s preoccupied.

It’s a schoolhouse that he’s snuck into; there are school desks lying abandoned on their sides, and a small fire burns beside them, filling the air with a thick, heavy smoke. 

Arthur keeps to the shadows as he makes his way around the room, eyes scanning for anyone else, looking for a way out, when, out of the shadows, steps another man. 

German, young. 

Arthur swallows as their eyes meet, both momentarily frozen. 

Neither of them want this, and yet here they are; Arthur diving for the young man as he opens his mouth to scream, pushing him against a pillar, hand clamped over his mouth. The young German is stiff against him, trembling. 

Arthur shakes his head slightly, raising a finger to his lips. 

_Stay quiet._

The German swallows, and nods, and Arthur, slowly- so carefully slowly- moves his hand away. It’s barely from his mouth when he twists his head, sucking in a breath and screams: “Englander!”

Arthur hisses a wordless curse, ramming the heel of his palm into the German’s mouth, silencing him, and they tumble to the ground, terrifyingly loud. 

The German struggles, he bites at Arthur’s hand with an animalistic desperation, and Arthur hisses, forcing his hand further into his mouth, his other hand securing itself against his throat. 

He pushes down with all his weight, wrestling the small knife from the German’s hand. 

They’re both panting, both scared, and they both know that one of them will not make it out of this alive. 

The German’s terrified now, eyes wide and scared, as he beats against Arthur’s chest, just as the other German stumbles back inside. 

Drunk, he’s mostly oblivious to their struggle, moaning and grumbling to himself. 

The German fights with renewed vigour, and Arthur’s face twists with sadness as he pushes down even harder, tired muscles aching and trembling, and then…

Stillness. 

Another hollow victory for Arthur Pendragon, and he rolls off him, jumping to his feet and runs straight past the older German into the night, blinking through the tears as he hears the screams. 

The older German’s howling- howling the younger German’s name, howling out a warning, but Arthur’s running and he doesn’t stop. 

He runs as more Germans chase him, dodging their bullets and slipping into a small alley, flying down a small flight of stairs. 

His lungs _burn_.

He doesn’t stop running, slamming into walls as he flies round corners, bullets flying past him, burying themselves into the stone near his head. 

He glances sideways and the, with no warning, runs straight across the street, one hand pushing down on the stone wall of the bridge and pushes himself right over it, dropping down into the water below. 

  
  
  
  


-

  
  
  
  


It’s cold, horribly so, and it’s _dark_. He can’t tell up from down as he thrashes, face breaking through the surface of the water and he gasps for air, each one so cold it burns, but he’s desperate, sucking in oxygen, panicking. 

His body is already turning numb with the cold; his thrashing doesn’t do much to stave off the chill as it seeps through his skin and wraps around his bones, his chest, constricting itself. 

He can’t breathe. 

His clothes are too heavy; they’re pulling him down, won’t let him float, and he gets his arms tangled in his webbing as he tries to pull it off, panic clutching at his throat and-

Finally, he gets it off, and it sinks down, down and down until he can’t see it anymore. 

He’s lighter now, and it’s easier to stay afloat in the rapid, churning water. With the Germans long gone, the rapid, swirling current is his worst enemy, sweeping him along, pulling him down, and he fights it, kicks as strong as he can, grabbing onto the branches of a passing felled tree, but the water is too strong; it rips him away, careless of his grip. 

It pulls him under again. 

Churns above him. 

Pulls him down.

down.

down.

down.

The water is inky above him, and he splutters when he finally manages to surface again, coughing and hurting. 

The water pulls at him, and this time he lets it- he lets it carry him downstream. 

It sends him crashing into a rock, back and head slamming against it, leaving him dazed and disorientated, and it’s all he can do to keep afloat. 

He- he can’t die like this. 

He’s seen men drown, and he won’t let that happen. 

With all of his strength, he fights to keep his head afloat, but it’s no use. The water pushes him over and down a waterfall; he’s pulled down into the plunge pool.

He’s pulled under the roaring water, but, by some divine miracle, manages to resurface, turning on his back, reaching for the nearest branch but it’s no use, he’s swept along again.

He’s so tired.

So weak. 

He’s hanging onto consciousness with his fingers, but it’s slipping from him. 

Slipping away into blackness.

His eyes are fluttering, the water lapping at his face; above him he can see green, he can see trees. A place yet untouched by the war.

He eases. Something inside of him lets go- almost ready to accept his fate.

Inch. 

By inch.

He starts to slip.

Down, into the cold embrace-

His ears fall under the waterline, and the world turns muffled. Only his lips are above the water, now, and he floats. It’s almost peaceful.

The water flattens, and the wind blows, cool and gentle, and his fingers start to flex, ready to relax, when- 

White.

White.

So much white- floating down around him, soft and delicate.

Cherry blossoms.

They’re gathering around him, coating the water, and he raises a hand, sluggish and numb, and watches them fall on it. Soft, curving petals of white cling to him.

It’s beautiful; its Elyan. 

Elyan. 

He blinks, a new determination warming him; the numbness bleeds away and he _fights_. He fights as hard as he’s ever fought and he struggles towards the bank, chest heaving with pain, but he does it- there’s a fallen tree, and he hauls himself up. 

The sun is peeking above the horizon, its soft rays touching him; a blessing. 

He drags himself across the grass, and falls to his aching knees, and he cries. 

He cries and he cries, frame racked with each sob, gasping for breath through the tears because everything _hurts_.

He cries. He cries for the war, he cries for Elyan, and he cries for the baby.

He cries for the underserved, the innocence ruined, the lives taken. 

He cries.

Above him, the sun almost cries with him, and he throws his head back, throat bobbing and eyes wet, and he hears it. Music; singing. 

Far off in the distance, but he _hears_ it.

It drives him to his feet; he stumbles, exhausted and shaking, blindly towards the sound. His limbs hurt as they’re used; still numb and cold, his blood is forced through them with each shaky, stumbling step. 

He walks, to the woods, where the light is filtering through the pine trees, soft and foreboding, and the music is louder; it’s from here. 

He can make out the words.

He walks through the trees, and there, in the clearing, small and tight, packed with soldiers shoulder to shoulder, is a man. 

A young, British soldier standing there, singing to them all; there must be two hundred men, all silent, all solemn. 

All listening. 

Arthur stops, and he leans against a tree, listening too. 

There’s something surreal; something dreamlike in the air, and the men, they feel like ghosts suspended in time. 

Lingering, in the moments before their death. 

Is Arthur a ghost too?

Above them all, dawn breaks, and Arthur closes his eyes. 

He’s done. 

He’s- done.

The song finishes, and there’s movement, all around them. A voice- the Captain- calls out, “D Company! Move out!” but Arthur’s unhearing. 

He’s unseeing; there’s a pair of legs before him. “You alright?”

He opens his eyes, staring unblinkingly at the legs. 

“Where are you from?”

Another pair of legs joins the first- “He’s probably got the wind up.”

“Well, he’s not one of ours.”

“He’s bloody soaked.” A third voice.

“Fuck it,” the first one says, “Let’s just pick him up and take him with us.”

Arthur opens his mouth. “Have to find the Devons.” Its soft, its broken; it doesn’t matter now. 

“What’s he saying”

“The Devons.” Louder now. He looks up at them. “I have to find the Devons.”

They share a look. “Mate, _we’re_ the Devons. _”_

He jerks, disbelieving. “You’re the Devons.”

“Yes, Corp.”

“Why- why haven’t you gone over?” 

“We’re the second wave.”

“They don’t send us all over at once,” the other one chimes in. 

“We’re D Company, we spent the night digging in. We go last.” It’s a new voice, and it sets a horrible sort of horror in Arthur’s chest. 

He forces himself to his feet, going desperately for his pocket- the letter, he needs the letter. 

“You alright?”

“Du Lac, where’s Colonel du Lac?”

The men share a look; they’ve seen men like him before. “He’s down the line,” one of them says slowly. 

“Which way?” He’s impatient.

“This way. We’re headed up there now.”

Arthur’s eyes widen, and then he’s off. Shoving and pushing his way down the line of men, uncaring of their snarls- he reaches the edge of the wood, and, he can see the land stretching out before him. 

He can see the British trench; there’s a comms trench winding its way to the front line, and Arthur races towards it. 

The ticking of time is deafening. 

  
  
  
  


-

  
  
  
  


He’s running; stumbling, almost flying head first into the ground, but he manages to get his feet back under him, advancing. 

He snarls at them to move- he doesn’t have time for pleasantries- and he grabs the first Corporal he sees by the shoulder. “Where’s your commanding officer?” He shouts, impatient and demanding- he doesn't have time, he doesn’t have _time_. 

The man scowls, shaking him off. “He’s in the holding pen,” he directs, and Arthur shoots off in the direction, pushing and shoving, until he approaches the holding area. 

It’s full of soldiers, and he barges through, making his way to the Lieutenant making an announcement- “Sir, I have a message from General Kilgharrah!”” 

The Lieutenant pauses, pissed. “Who the bloody hell are _you_?”

“The attack has been called off- General Kilgharrah has called off the attack.”

The Lieutenant blinks. “What? Fucking hell, man, we’re about to go over- we’ve got them on the bloody _run_.”

Arthur’s panicking. “No!” He protests frantically, “You don’t! Please, you can’t send your men over- you can’t!”

The Lieutenant scowls. “Get out of the way, Corporal-”

“Those are direct orders from Army command! Where is Colonel du Lac?” He shoves the letter in the Lieutenant’s face, brandishing it wildly; there’s a frantic, desperate look in his eye that the Lieutenant shifts at, uncomfortable. 

“Jesus Christ, man- go see the fucking Captain!” He shoves him in the direction, and Arthur stumbles, moving as fast as he can. 

Its a wild goose chase- send from commanding officer to commanding officer, barreling through narrow trench to narrow trench, exhaustion dragging him down with each step, until- 

The air vibrates. 

There’s a sound- impossibly loud, it rattles his bones- and the shells scream overhead; German artillery. 

They all seek what little cover the trench provides, but the earth is blown; all around them, it sprays in the air, destruction wrought. .

He’s reached Captain Emrys, and he’s shaking like a leaf, eyes wide and terrified as he takes in the destruction all around them.

Arthur has no sympathy. 

He grabs the man’s hands, pressed to his ears, and wrestles them away. “Where is du Lac?” he screams above the sound of war, and Emrys meets his eyes with wet ones, lips trembling. 

Arthur curses; Emrys doesn’t reply and he leaves him, moving through the line, wading through the men, the carnage with a singleminded determination. 

Behind him, the trench blows; a direct hit, but he keeps on going, keeps running, keeps moving. 

He’s so _close_. 

German shells whistle as they fly, and the earth booms as it shatters, and Arthur’s breath rings in his ears. 

For Elyan; he has to do this for Elyan.

The trench narrows, tapering in until he can barely squeeze through. It’s too slow, there’s too many men.

It’s no use; the trenches have flown into chaos, full of scared men and commanding officers trying to wrestle back control in vain. 

He has to go further up the line- du Lac has to be further up the line, but he can’t _get_ further up the line, not unless-

He skids to a halt, eyes wide; his head spins to the trench wall. There’s a ladder. 

Without giving himself enough second time to second guess, he steps forward, climbs up. He’s on the firing step, and men are yelling- they’re yelling at him, but he’s deaf to them. 

Time slows, and then suddenly speeds up- he’s on the top step, and then he’s off, he’s in the open, and he’s running, the land flying beneath his foot as he sprints, he runs, he runs. 

He’s running parallel to the trench, heart thundering, ears ringing with each sound of gunfire, but he doesn’t stop. 

Bullets fly in front of him, they fly behind him- shells land before his feet, and they send him stumbling, scrambling to stay upright, but he keeps going. Keeps putting one foot in front of the other, lung burning, legs killing, until he finally- finally- reaches the final few feet.

He dives down, into the second command trench, tumbling in front of the waiting men of the B company and pulls himself to his feet, leaving the stunned men behind as he makes his way over to a captain, waving his letter. 

“Colonel,” he starts, panting, “du Lac?”

The Captain steadies him, jerking his head towards a dugout. “He’s in there.” He turns to his men, Arthur already forgotten, and Arthur runs, half-limping, pushing his way through, until-

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” A man grabs him, snarls in his face, and Arthur snarls back, struggling. 

“I have to get through! I have to get to Colonel du Lac!”

“What the fuck do you have to see him for?”

“I have to stop the attack!” The man releases him in shock, and he pushes past him, barging into the dugout ante-room, only to be grabbed again.

He struggles weakly, drained. “Colonel…”

They’ve pinned him to the trench wall, and he sags in their grip. “I have a letter,” he tells them, pleading, “I have a letter! I need to see Colonel du Lac.”

It’s the only thought in his head. 

“There’s no bloody way you’re getting in there,” the men say, grip tightening on him, and he flails in vain. 

There’s a captain, and he’s giving the order to send the next wave, and Arthur can’t see through the sheer fucking panic.

With the last of his strength, he struggles, throwing an elbow, feeling it land in the gut of one of the men, and he breaks away, careening into the dugout where men stand, gathered around something, their backs to him. 

A voice is speaking- strong and commanding, and Arthur knows with a bone-deep certainty that _this_ is Colonel du Lac. 

“Colonel du Lac!” he screams, and they turn to him. There, staring straight at him, is Lancelot du Lac; he’s glaring, opening his mouth, and Arthur rushes forward, speaking before he can in a rush. “Sir, this attack is not to go ahead, you’ve been ordered to stop!” He’s panting. “You have to stop.” 

Colonel du Lac is frowning, displeased. “Who the hell are you?”

“Lance Corporal Arthur Pendragon, Sir.” He straightens. “8th. I have orders, from General Kilgharrah to stop this attack.”

He offers up the letter, but du Lac doesn’t take it. He only stares at it in distaste.

“You’re too late, Lance Corporal,” is all he says, with a shake of his head. He makes to turn, but Arthur grips his arm, stopping him. He offers him the letter again.

“Sir, these orders are from Arm Command, you _have_ to read them.” He swallows. His hand is shaking, and the letter is wet, and he’s exhausted. 

A Major behind du Lac peers over. “Shall we hold back the second wave, Sir?”

Du Lac shakes his head. “No, Major,” he says firmly, not taking his eyes from Arthur’s. “We hesitate now and we lost.”

“Sir,” Arthur pleads- begs. “Please, you have to read the letter.”

Colonel du Lac’s lips curl; it’s almost a sneer. “I’ve heard it all before. I’m not going to wait until dusk, or for fog. I’m not calling back my men, only to send them out there tomorrow. Not when we’ve got the bastards on the run.” His gaze is intense. “This is their last stand.”

“The Germans have planned this, Sir.” His words make du Lac freeze, and he presses on. “They’ve been planning it for months. They _want_ you to attack.” Softer; “Read the letter.”

Du Lac considers him, before nodding to the Major from earlier, who takes the letter and hands it to the Colonel. 

Du Lac reads it. 

His face doesn’t change. 

Arthur’s stomach is a churning mess, and he might just be sick while he waits. 

But then- “Major.” du Lac’s voice is slow, careful. 

“Yes, Sir?”

There’s a pregnant silence- thick, and heavy; significant. 

“Stand them down.”

Arthur deflates in relief, his eyes closing. He sways on the spot slightly, throat bobbing. Colonel du Lac is speaking, but it’s not until there’s a hand on Arthur’s shoulder that he opens his eyes. “I had hoped today might be a good day.” His voice is quiet, and Arthur sees a melancholy in his eyes that is mirrored in Arthur’s. “Hope is a dangerous thing.”

Arthur doesn’t move- can’t. 

“That’s all for now. Then, next week, command will send a different message- attack at dawn.” He meets his eyes. “There is only one way this war ends.” He pauses, meaningfully. “Last man standing.” He shakes his head slightly, and he looks Arthur up and down. “Have someone see to your wounds.”

When Arthur doesn’t move, he rolls his eyes. “Now fuck off, Lance Corporal.”

Arthur swallows. Nods. 

He’s done it.

He leaves the main dugout, in a daze, and it’s then that the Major stops him. “Well done, lad,” he says, and Arthur can sense how heartfelt it is. 

He nods, summoning up a weak, shaky smile. “Thank you, sir.” He hesitates. “Do- do you know where a nurse Guienevere Smith is, by any chance, Sir?”

The Major frowns. “Smith?”

Arthur nods. “There were two of us. I was sent with her brother” And that’s explanation enough.

The Major’s eyes turn sympathetic. “There’s a casualty clearing station behind the line.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Emotion clogs his throat, and the Major nods, leaving. Leaving Arthur alone, gathering himself together, stopping himself from splintering into a thousand tiny pieces. 

  
  
  
  
  


-

  
  
  
  
  


The casualty clearing is chaos; dying men crying for their mothers fill the air, the sounds of their screams- the sounds of them dying. 

There’s men, limbs blown off, some riddled with bullet holes, and Arthur swallows back the bile. Later- he’ll let himself feel later. For now, he has his mission. 

He stumbles inside, eyes scanning the nurses, flitting from patient to patient, covered with blood and dirt. 

Their eyes are as traumatised as the soldiers. 

“Gwen? Guienevere Smith?” He calls weakly, and one nurse’s head turns to him. 

“Over there,” she nods outside, where there is a figure following a stretcher bearer, directing them with a clear, authoritative voice. 

She’s got her hair curled back, revealing a face strikingly similar to Elyan’s.

It takes Arthur’s breath away, makes him weak kneed. 

“Guinevere Smith?” He calls, moving towards her. 

She turns, frowning as her eyes scan him. “Yes? Are you wounded?” He is, they can both see that, but there’s another question in her eyes. _What do you want?_

“I- I’m from the 8th,” is all he can say. 

She’s as beautiful as Elyan was handsome, and it hurts, makes his heart ache, his grief sharpen until it cuts at his chest, piercing his skin like thorns. 

She frowns. “What are you doing out here?”

“I was sent here to deliver a message-”

Her face brightens with understanding. “The 8th, you say? You must know my brother.” She’s proud, and it feels like a punch to his gut. 

Arthur swallows. “I was sent here with him.”

Her smile widens. “Elyan’s here?” She looks around, as if she would be able to spot him. 

Arthur can only stare at her, and her smile fades, fear clouding her face. The implication of his state- wounded, exhausted, heartbroken- sets in. Her hand flies to her mouth, and her eyes well with tears. 

“It was very quick,” he manages, hoping that it’s at least _some_ comfort. “I’m so sorry.” 

She nods, gathering herself as Arthur’s hand delves into his pockets. Clasped in his hands are Elyan’s possessions; his rings, blood stained. 

Her face is ashen and flat as she accepts them, silent tears tracing down her cheeks. 

He’s struck, for a moment, by how strong he is.

By how strong they _both_ are.

“What’s your name?” She manages finally, fist curling around the rings. 

“Pendragon, Miss.”

She nods, looking at her hand. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Pendragon,” he repeats quietly. “Arthur Pendragon.”

She nods, clearing her throat. “There- there’s food, over there, in the mess tent. You should probably get your wounds seen to-” her voice breaks, and Arthur turns, ready to leave her to grieve, when-

“If I may, I’d like to write to your father. Tell him that Elyan wasn’t alone.”

Her face crumples. “Of course.”

Arthur closes his eyes, feeling horrid. “I-” There must be something to say- _anything_. “He was- he was a good man. One of the best I’ve ever know.” His voice breaks, and he can feel his own eyes growing wet. 

She nods, but it doesn’t feel enough.

“He saved my life.”

She looks up. She doesn’t seem surprised. “I’m glad you were there for him,” she says, soft, and Arthur almost breaks down there and then. “Thank you, Arthur.”

He nods, nothing else to say, and walks away. 

He’s aimless; he has nowhere to go as he moves away from the makeshift aid post. His feet carry him into the meadow beyond, where the grass sways in the breeze, touched gold by the morning sun.

The horrors of the world behind him fades as he approaches the towering oak; he sinks against it, listening to the wind dancing through the leaves. 

It’s almost peaceful. 

In his pocket he pulls out the tobacco tin, takes out the photo. 

It’s him and Elyan with the rest of their battalion, laughing. 

There’s another; his sister. His father.

His family.

He stares at it, and it feels like an elastic band around his heart, but then he closes his eyes and clutches them to his chest, and he just breathes, and-

The sun is warm on his face. 

- _end_

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry
> 
> [Some lines ](https://spookydraig.tumblr.com/post/614450910532435968/he-kneels-beside-blakes-body-impotent) are lifted shamelessly from the [script](https://universalpicturesawards.com/1917/screenplay/1917.pdf)


End file.
